


The Letters

by thegrumblingirl



Series: assassins don't take sides [4]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: (and some explicit), (angels singing), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dishonored: The Corroded Man, Dishonored: The Wyrmwood Deceit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Polyamorous Character, Void shenanigans, Worldbuilding, canon has been roasted and carved for juicy bits, no more slow burn, the Empire's a political mess and guess who's gotta deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: On this day that marks the occasion of Emily Kaldwin I’s ascension to the throne of the four nations of the Isles, the following declaration has been made by the Office of the Royal Protector and Spymaster. Lord Corvo Attano, who has served the Kaldwin family loyally for now twenty-eight years, hereby acknowledges the Empress, daughter and rightful heir of Jessamine Kaldwin, as his child.The years between — 1840-1851.Sequel toYou Know Who I Am, prequel to Dishonored 2.Spotify playlist.eBook version.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud's first mission leads him out into the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're baaaaaack, bitcheeeees!  
> Some admin: this story will cover the years 1840 to 1851, it will also include rewrites of the tie-in novels and the first graphic novel. Each chapter will work more as a standalone, with time jumps in between. Because I am gonna be tackling my wips for other fandoms this summer, updates will be posted every other week rather than weekly. Yes, I know, patience and all, but it means the hiatus before Part 5 will be much, much shorter!
> 
> Also, apologies if you were confused about me posting this a few weeks ago — it was an accident, and I quickly deleted the work before anyone except Kogouma saw it :’D this is the real thing now, though. I know I said official start date is May 4, but I’d always planned on posting this prologue as a surprise (and as a birthday gift) — way to ruin the surprise lol
> 
> A very happy WELCOME BACK to returning readers, a cheerful WELCOME TO HELL to anyone who's just joined us; and most importantly: a very happy birthday to Resri!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Title song: [The Letters, by Leonard Cohen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NZswAakLu0&t=1s&index=54&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN).
> 
> Soundtrack for this chapter: [Sleeping Alone, by Lykke Li](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB1aoelO_Ow&t=0s&index=55&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN).
> 
> Alternate chapter summary: Daud's on his first mission, Corvo's wrangling his diary, and everyone else gets the day off.

**Personal Diary of Corvo Attano**

_Month of Songs, 1839_

_A lot has happened since I last recorded in this journal_ _everything that goes on_ _,_ _at Court_ _or otherwise. For a long time, I did because my life was strange and my heart was empty. Then, one fragment of my heart left me not to settle into the Void, but to find peace — and another_ _was_ _returned to me. Daud returned to me, and even as I waited for him to wake, the man I saw in the mirror looked a little less like a stranger each day._

 _When_ _he woke, I will not deny that I cried like a fool, nor that I barely dared to touch him that first night he truly slept by my side_ _, for fear of it all being an illusion conjured by the Void to punish me for the dishonour of losing him_ _._

 _I_ _offered myself_ _to him_ _, my hand and my heart, in secret though it must be given_ _. Using the third of the rings, I_ _did so_ _, and he said, ‘alright,’ which in his words means, ‘yes, you idiot;’ and I suppose there is not much else to say. We cannot go before an Overseer or a judge, not being who we are, Royal Protector and_ _Knife of Dunwall_ _, but Daud wears the ring on a chain around his neck same as I do, now. He wears it when we sleep and still wears it when we wake, and sometimes my hand strays to his neck to brush the silver with my fingertips. He never comments, and neither do I; but he kisses me before the dawn, and so I know that it_ _i_ _s real._

_Daud has been away for two months now, first in Morley and now in Tyvia. He asked for two weeks to plan his approach and assemble a small team, and those two weeks I tried not to spend counting down the days, the hours, to when he would leave Dunwall again. Leave me again._

_It takes time to get used to sleeping alone._

_Daud being cast into the Void_ _…_ _wanting to remain in the Void, it left_ _wounds_ _;_ _wounds_ _that are slow to heal. Where before I was counting down, I am now left to counting up, to crossing off the days he has braved the cold to find and, if he can, turn the contacts Emily’s enemies have in Alba and Dabokva; and to find out what he can about Burrows’_ _spy_ _, Zhukov, as well as my missing agent._ _But I know_ _Daud will come back._ _He_ _accepted my suit, perhaps in a moment of mutual delusion, and sometimes I_ _feel as though I ought_ _to sit down for a moment when I remember._ _I will not insult us both with insecurities._

 _Soon, the Fugue Feast will be upon us, and with it another year. Another Month of Earth — another anniversary. And for the first time, I will be completely without her now. Without Jessamine, without the Heart. Missing Jessamine will never_ _be_ _any easier. Celebrating her life on the day of her death won’t, either; and it is only knowing that Daud feels the same, misses her just as well, that leaves me unafraid to show it_ _, to beg his comfort when the date draws near_ _. It will be the first time he’ll be with us on the anniversary, Void willing, and even though it is his choice_ _alone_ _, I hope he’ll choose to spend it with us. I know Emily could do with another friendly face. A_ _s_ _could I._

 _Not a day passes that I am not afraid for Emily’s future; but I must remember that she will be trained by the best swordsmen and assassins — guards, now, officers — in the Isles. Daud once complained he’d never train that ‘back alley’ out of her movements after I’d started teaching her, and the thought fills me with amusement, but something grimmer than that, too. Daud fights no less dirty than I do if he has to, but he holds himself differently: he is — used to be — an assassin. One slice of his blade and another life was over, blood running into the gutter. Most of my life, I trained to be the one to stop men like him, and if he hadn’t chosen as he did, to come and warn us, I have no doubt he’d have been the one who’d_ _have_ _gotten through. The one to eat at my dreams. He’s quick, and combat, either by blade or hand to hand, for him, is a contingency. One he’s near perfect at, no doubt, but if our time in the pits has taught me one thing, it’s that I hold an edge; just a sliver of steel, but it’s there. And if Emily grows up with that bit of ‘back alley,’ I hope it will lend her that same edge._

_It’s deep night now, and sleep is coming slowly. But the lantern dims and I grow weary, and so I ought to bed down soon. And I am not alone, not tonight — Daud sent another letter, it arrived this morning. I’ve read it once, then twice, another time after lunch; and I shall re-read it now and let his words put me to rest; knowing that he is alive and well, and keen to return to my side. To come home._

* * *

Daud laid down the pen, then sat back. He had written another letter to Corvo — the third in two months, not that he was counting; and that was on top of the official field reports he sent more frequently. For now, he submitted these in writing, sending a courier back to Dunwall on one of the trading ships that didn’t ask too many questions (or, preferably, none at all); but he would speak to Corvo and the others when he returned. Audiograph cards could be stolen just as easily as a letter or report, but at least it tended to take longer for the thief to locate an audiograph player than it did to snatch the damn thing back. Unless the thief had slit the courier’s throat, in that case there was little to be done, Daud conceded; but he would discuss this with Corvo back in Dunwall.

Dunwall — no matter how much Daud missed Corvo and Emily, he could not never quite bring himself to miss Dunwall. The Arcane Bond, too, did nothing to endear the old muddied rock to him. The distance strained it, the Void inside him displeased and impatient to return, but the Bond held; Daud could feel it. The nature of his mission meant that Corvo could not reply to his messages, but Daud felt that if the Whalers’ bonds had been severed yet again, he would have received a strongly-worded letter, post-haste.

As it was, Daud had left Corvo to deal with whatever the outcome of the Brockburn investigation had been, and it irked him not to know more; but the couriers ferrying his letters to Dunwall were never trusted with information on the return journey and Daud didn’t up and ask to have the Dunwall Courier delivered to him. Little as it would have done — he doubted that the whole truth would have been printed, either by virtue of the reporter taking artistic rather than journalistic license, or simply because Corvo had restricted access to the charges brought against Brockburn, his party, and the Hatters. Which, Daud knew, he would have done only if it turned out to be a matter of state — of keeping Emily safe. Daud hoped it had not come to that.

Daud’s own mission would most likely be complete within the month, and the results were meagre: Corvo’s agent was dead, and Zhukov no longer the Hero of Tyvia. His involvement with Burrows had likely been discovered long before Corvo had sent someone to Dabokva, but it seemed certain that Zhukov had killed them in a desperate attempt to maintain his cover. It may as well have been the body drop that had sealed his fate, however, and so Daud had been left to mop up what of the mess he could — which was very little. It had been over a year, and for Zhukov, that meant he was beyond extraction. The High Judges had sentenced him to freedom, as Daud had feared. No-one escaped the ice wastes of Utyrka.

Daud would return to Dunwall by the second week of Earth, at the latest. He dreaded returning… _coming home_ only just in time for the anniversary of Jessamine’s death. Corvo hadn’t asked it of him, and wouldn’t, but Daud knew well enough that he hoped, unlikely though that certainty felt still. Even so, Daud would return to Dunwall, and leave again.

As for finding — Daud had been the Knife of Dunwall, the man whose shadows wore masks. There’d been blood, and blades raised; and who was he to be once that ended? Daud looked in the mirror and some days saw the Knife, other days he saw the man, and sometimes he was both still, split down the middle along a jagged edge, one eye human and the other black as the Void. He needed to find a version of himself he could look into either eye in the mirror without recoiling. He needed purpose, equilibrium. The Knife had had both these things, but they’d been borne on the edge of a blade; one wrong move, and it would have sliced clean through. Daud had been held in place by the charge in the air around him, by the tension in the ropes and strings tying him to Dunwall. Then he’d raised his own blade and cut his strings, and fallen deep and hard into a world he barely recognised.

He had returned from the Void to the world for it to serve as its own punishment — but he had found more than that. So much more. 

 

> _Corvo —_
> 
> _My task is nearly concluded. There is one more field report to write, which I will dispatch within the week, and I believe I’ll be able to start on the journey back to Dunwall before the Fugue is called._
> 
> _The last time I wrote to you like this was before leaving Alba, and thus I feel compelled to tell you that Tyvia is as miserable now as it is during the Month of High Cold. It’s hard to believe the climate is so different up in Whei-Gon, especially when you’re sitting on a lamp post, freezing your balls off, spying on a bunch of aristocrats and watching them empty a bottle of spirits to keep them warm._
> 
> _I’ve not been asking how things are in Dunwall because you can’t be expected to reply, but here are some of the questions I’ll be liable to pester you with once I’m back, so you might prepare yourself:_
> 
> _\- How much trouble have Emily and Alexi been getting_ _themselves (and others)_ _in, and do I need to have a word?_
> 
> _\- How has Emily’s training been progressing? She was making eyes at the practice swords before I left, and she’s unlikely to have stopped in the meantime._
> 
> _\- Has Rinaldo finally stopped scaring Simmons with stories about the Arcane Bond? He tried to convince him that it let us eavesdrop on our charges through the Void last I heard. And, yes, I was eavesdropping — involuntarily_ _,_ _through a door_ _I had no intention of opening to correct him_ _._
> 
> _And, perhaps, the most important question of all —_
> 
> _Have you missed me? (I’ll expect to collect the answer to this question, as I expect to do a great deal of things, in private.)_
> 
> _I’ll see you again soon._
> 
> _— Daud_

He leaned forward, then, and sealed the letter. It was a plain seal, unadorned, but Daud’s hand strayed underneath his collar, to touch the silver necklace Corvo had given him. Hadn’t he once condemned his love for Corvo as the chain around his neck? Little could he have known, in the Void, that one day that chain would be real, would be his anchor: the lightest thing he’d ever carried but the most important all the same. His fingers closed around the ring. A _token_ , romantic souls might call it, but Daud was no-one’s noble champion. He was, simply, Corvo’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) I love them so muuuuuuuuuuuuch.  
> b) They're so dumb for each other I just  
> c) The joy of this fic is finding the leftover angst in all this Married Couple Happy they're rolling in, and I'm LIVING  
> d) walnut status: still walnuts
> 
> A few links:
> 
> # [here's the eBook masterpost](https://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/170754417480/assassins-dont-take-sides-ebook-masterpost); I'm still working on formatting You Know Who I Am  
> # [here's the Corvo/Jessamine/Daud OT3 series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/941370) I wrote in March  
> # [here's a director's cut I posted](), containing scenes from Who By Fire, comparing scenes from the first and the final draft
> 
> as ever, if you wanna yell at me, I'm screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse on tumblr, @grumblewhale on twitter, and you can add me on discord, too: thegrumblingirl#8179


	2. Chapter One — You’re reading them again, the ones you didn’t burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud comes home, and leaves again. Emily and Alexi face an unseen threat. Corvo barely holds everything together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, peeps! The first proper chapter, and it's a _doozy_!
> 
> Soundtrack: [Man or a Monster, by Sam Tinnesz, ft. Zayde Wølf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMNcq_EvArU&index=56&t=0s&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN).
> 
> And before you do anything else: [look at the napping dad cheebs punch drew](https://a-whole-lotta-whalebone.tumblr.com/post/173558330701/hey-so-part-4-of-assassins-dont-take-sides-just).  
> oh and a big thank-you to threewhiskeylunch, who provided ideas for what Daud might get Corvo for his birthday!

> **_DUNWALL COURIER_ **
> 
> _10_ _ th _ _Day, Month of Earth, 1840_
> 
> **_Closed Trials, Life Sentences in Coldridge for Dunwall Citizens, Gang Members_ **
> 
> _Over the past months, this newspaper has reported, in fragments, rumours and speculation — as far as they could be verified —_ _regarding_ _recent events in the courts and Coldridge Prison. Members of Dunwall society, among them Devin Brockburn, a well-known business owner, as well as suspected members of the infamous Hatter Gang were reportedly arrested last Month of Timber, and brought to Coldridge for interrogation while the City Watch under Captain Geoff Curnow conducted an investigation into their alleged criminal activities. That, however, is where the flow of information stops — information the city’s public are well entitled to._
> 
> **_Lord Protector — or Man in the Mask?_ **
> 
> _It would not be the first time in recent years that criminals have been plucked from Dunwall’s streets seemingly without a sound, caught in the act and arrested by the City Watch who knew just the right place to be at the right time; which keen tongues might_ _say_ _is not one of our guard force’s usual strengths. Rather, it is rumoured that they have help from unusual quarters: the Masked Felon, that legendary figure from the time of the Rat Plague, who was claimed to be seen traversing rooftops and chasms to avenge our fair Empress, Jessamine Kaldwin, and her daughter. The Man in the Mask, as he’s often called in the dark streets and hidden alleyways, was never given a name, nor a face. Many did and still believe him to be the work of Corvo Attano, Royal Protector and now Spymaster as well; but public testimony is vague and, ultimately, beyond contestation. Despite the Lord Protector’s failure in protecting the Empress and suspected allegiance with the assassin Daud, his dismantling of Burrows’ conspiracy and return of then Princess, now Empress, Emily Kaldwin to Dunwall Tower and the throne won him the status of a man not to be trifled or toyed with. Maligned though he may be, he is feared most of all. The Empress, now almost thirteen years of age, is perhaps underestimated in her consciousness of the power she wields even at her age. Many believe her Protector and the High Overseer are guiding her every move; yet others insist she ought to be a force to be reckoned with long before she comes of age and takes over sole responsibility for the Empire._
> 
> _Who, then, has decided to withhold vital information from Dunwall’s citizens? The Empress herself, believing us undeserving of the truth, or the Royal Protector, acting in an attempt to protect his charge from public revelations that might stir up controversy?_
> 
> **_Brockburn and Others Sentenced to Life in Coldridge_ **
> 
> _From what we could gather for this editorial, Brockburn, his allies, and the Hatters were charged with and convicted of undisclosed charges of utmost severity; and will now serve life sentences in Coldridge. Life sentences are unusual, by virtue of the punishment for capital offences being death_ _under Gristol's penal code_ _. Coldridge’s execution yard is well-kept for just that reason. If jurisdiction for their crimes fell to the Crown — what else could it have been they were accused of but treason? And if it was, what good reason is there for keeping them alive?_
> 
> _Unless, of course, they possess information. Unless they present not only the consequences of acting against the Empress and her government, but a deterrent. Unless they_ _represent_ _leverage_ _; a_ _gainst whoever else is not yet behind bars._
> 
> _Devin Brockburn has a wife, and two sons. Surely, they would like to know why their husband and father will spend the rest of his life only a stone’s throw from Dunwall Tower, yet an eternity away from freedom._

Corvo put down the paper and sighed. Not for the first time, he cursed the Courier’s tenacious editorial staff, even as he appreciated their fastidious work. It had been his decision to suppress the information, to convince the judges to exclude the public from these trials — and seeing as the charges _had_ counted treason against the Crown among them, the judges had been most amenable. It had helped, somewhat, that two of them had been among those who Corvo and Daud had paid… visits to, during their time in hiding.

That seemed so long ago now. And, by the Void, it was.

Daud had already left for Tyvia by the time Rulfio had returned to the Tower with the information that they sought.

“I found out why Brockburn was dealing with the Hatters,” Rulfio had declared upon his entrance to Corvo’s quarters, and handed over the papers he’d been carrying. “Brockburn’s the quasi-leader of a group of business owners and industrialists who were loyal to Burrows during the Empress’ absence.” It was an atrocious euphemism, Corvo found, but it generally did the job. “Following Burrows’ arrest, they were furious at Parliament for not protecting him, for blocking his proposals and bowing to… certain pressure.” Pressure the Whalers had so generously applied. “They compiled a list, of all voting blocks who turned against Burrows, and of those who testified that he’d press-ganged them into supporting his claim to the regency.”

“And what were they going to do with the people on that list?“ Corvo had asked, though they had both known it was merely the setup for the punchline.

“Assassinate them, sir. They chose three targets to be killed in their homes, at the same time.”

Corvo remembered wishing he could have written to Daud, to seek his counsel and to share the dread that filled him at the thought of such a threat to the stability of Emily’s reign. Political assassinations had not, of course, stopped altogether, but they were fewer and farther between, now; the nobles of Dunwall did not entrust their grudges to just anyone after the Knife’s sudden disappearance. Three members of Parliament dead within the night, two of them genuinely loyal to both Jessamine and Emily… to reveal the extent of the threat would have come at too great a cost. After the end of the Rat Plague, Dunwall had worked to hard to get even just back on its _knees_.

He only hoped that Daud would agree.

The remaining members of Brockburn’s little ‘group’ had been questioned and investigated, but only those who’d been with him that night had appeared to be part of the plan; all others attested to their support of the cause, but nothing further. Surely, one of them had gone tattling to the Courier, along with perhaps one or two prison guards. Corvo did not have the resources nor, frankly, the inclination to watch Brockburn’s allies forever, although of course the Whalers kept their eyes open and their ears to the ground across the city. Burrows had supporters enough before his conspiracy spiralled out of control; and political opinion would surely have become a matter for the courts had he become Regent, but Corvo feared the day any legitimate ruler stooped so low. There would always be dissenters, and some would always declare themselves outright enemies of the Crown. If the rest of Brockburn’s friends had not been made part of this ill-conceived scheme, it would have likely been because they’d been deemed too weak, too cowardly, to be relied upon. Chances were not all of them would remain in Dunwall, at any rate. As for Brockburn’s wife and children — they were the only ones in this deserving of compassion. Corvo had not gone to see them personally.

Corvo glanced at the clock — it was ten in the morning now, and the trading ships from Tyvia usually came in around eleven, every two days. Daud hadn’t been on the last one.

* * *

 

It was Rulfio and Thomas waiting for Daud, in a skiff just off the docks. Experimentally, he had used his powers to summon them, calling through the Void. If it hadn’t worked, he would have simply made his way towards the Tower on his own, skulking over the rooftops. But such as it was, it _had_ worked. Stealing away through the shadows cast by the ship’s crew unloading their cargo, Daud transversed down towards them.

“Boss,” Rulfio called when he was close. “Good to have you back, sir.”

“Master Daud,” Thomas said, a teasing note now accompanying the title, now that they weren’t the Whalers anymore, nor he the Knife that had cleaved the city from its bones; but still they couldn’t quite let go of what they’d been. To their surprise, perhaps, Daud reached out. Thomas rallied first and clasped his hand, they shook in greeting as any old acquaintances would. Daud let go and offered the same to Rulfio, who in turn surprised him by grasping his forearm rather than his hand. Curling his fingers into the fabric of Rulfio’s officer’s uniform, Daud nodded at him. A gaffer’s greeting — fitting, even if in jest. But Rulfio did not look to be joking, so Daud held in the quip.

“Sir?” Rulfio asked.

Daud shrugged. “It’s been three months, and it wasn’t the Void, so no need for tearful reunions,” he rumbled as he sat down across from them. He watched as Rulfio and Thomas exchanged a glance. “But need for a greeting nonetheless,” he finished, gesturing vaguely. And it was true: Whalers had often been sent out on reconnaissance or scouting trips, but never this long. Some would leave on other business and then return, in the old days, but those occasions had been few and far between and Daud had only ever welcomed them back with a nod and a new assignment, provided they hadn’t lost their sword hand in the meantime. Daud had rarely left the base for longer than a few days, Billie managing things in his absence; and he had been careful not to leave the ranks unattended for too long. But they — he — had missions now; and he wasn’t their leader anymore. They answered to other masters now, as he answered to the Crown.

Thomas and Rulfio seemed satisfied with the explanation, as one shrugged and the other grinned. Then, Rulfio started the engine and started to steer them away from the pier.

“Dunwall Tower grounds and the water lock are staffed with our people today,” Thomas told Daud. “When you told Corvo you’d leave Tyvia before the Fugue Feast, we made sure to change the shift schedules for the days that ships arrive from Dabokva; so we don’t have to sneak you in through the sewers and the vents.”

So he wouldn’t smell any worse than he did already, Daud thought sardonically. Then, unwisely, he thought of the day Corvo had returned from his voyage — the one Jessamine had sent him on to bring back hope, and from which he’d returned with nought but a letter promising the other Isles’ best attempts to starve them out. That day, he’d watched as Corvo emerged from the water lock to be met by Emily, before finding his steps to his Empress. And then, everything had gone wrong.

Daud did his best not to hope for any welcome, as he’d done his best not to count the days too impatiently. It would take as long as it had to, he’d vowed to himself before he’d left, dreading to find he’d be the type too lovesick to perform his duties as he’d set them out. But as it was, it would have been foolish to try _not_ to think of Corvo, as he’d been the very reason Daud had gone, for starters. As soon as he got underway, however, his worries eased as he found his thoughts of Corvo were those of longing, yes, but far superseded by his determination to see the mission through, and to complete the job he’d been sent to do. Still, now that returning was within his grasp, it would be coy to deny the ache in his chest and the tension sitting just below.

The skiff took them to the Tower swiftly, Daud, receiving what sounded suspiciously like _gossip_ from the other two, especially when Rulfio mentioned a ‘spectacular’ shouting match between Piero and Sokolov and Thomas grinned with barely concealed schadenfreude.

Daud had never actually passed through the water lock the official way — had used the sewers and the pipes and the roof to get inside the Tower before today. But now, he craned his neck to look up as shouts of, “Master Daud!” rang out from above, Rulfio calling for the valves to be opened.

“And she’s rising,” Thomas announced, and cheers followed. Dodge and Hobson, Daud recognised their voices before he could properly see their faces. The skiff rising on the water that came flowing down the stone, they ascended quickly. Once Thomas called to shut the water off, Hobson rushed to do so, while Daud watched as Dodge lifted their fingers to their mouth to produce a mighty whistle. A second whistle echoed from the bridge, then another from further beyond. The signal had been given. Daud got out of the skiff ahead of Thomas and Rulfio and went to Hobson, who greeted him as the Whalers used to, fist raised over his heart. Daud nodded at him, then turned to Dodge, who beamed, and did the same.

“They'll know you’re here now, sir,” Dodge told him.

“Everyone’s bleeding ears can attest to that, Dodge,” Daud told them drily, clapping them on the back. “I had better not let the Empress wait, then.”

Daud stepped past them and headed towards the open gate. Jenkins and Montgomery stood guard at the bridge.

“Sir,” they greeted him; and Daud began to feel altogether strange. ‘Something to come home to,’ he’d explained to Corvo one night, certainly, but he hadn’t expected… he hadn’t expected there to be _so much_. And somehow, curiously, he felt some of the weight slough off his shoulders. If he were to look down to see his reflection in the mirror's face of the Wrenhaven now, he felt he would not see the Knife but a man, wholly. Perhaps even one he might tolerate.

“Daud!”

He was startled from his thoughts by a young voice. Emily. She appeared at the other end of the bridge at a gallop, but then stopped, as if uncertain. Acting on instinct, and quite without self-censure, Daud opened his arms. She grinned, and flew towards him. He bent just enough to catch her and draw her up, letting her bury her head in his shoulder and her arms wrap around his neck; and he held her tightly for a moment. She was safe, she was fine, she was… happy to see him. And Void, she was getting taller, he had to set her down barely a foot when she drew back.

“You’re back!” Emily exclaimed. “Will you tell me about your trip? And I don’t just mean the mission. Were there any whales? Pirates?” she asked excitedly, and then — she quickly kissed his cheek, as he’d seen her do with Corvo a hundred times. He froze. It was one thing for her to be affectionate with her father, even in his role as the dutiful Protector she’d grown up with, but _him_? She withdrew again, still smiling at him, as though it hadn’t just been the first time she’d done that and not ‘for no good reason,’ as Daud’s mind didn’t hesitate to supply.

“Sure, kid,” he rumbled eventually, remembering that it was rude not to respond when the Empress of the Isles asked you a damn question. “And yes to the whales, no to any pirates.”

“Rats,” Emily cursed quietly, and Daud raised his brow at her. “Callista can’t hear,” she told him, sounding the tiniest bit petulant. “And you won’t tell her.”

Daud had to give her that. “No, because she’ll blame my bad influence.“ Realising they were still standing uselessly in the middle of the bridge, Daud nudged her. “Where’s Corvo?” He fought not to betray his impatience to see him, but then he supposed Emily could read it on his face as easily as his surprise at her welcome.

“He’s in a meeting with Anton and Piero,” she told him. “Which I’m sure he won’t mind for you to interrupt,” she added as earnestly as she could.

“Won’t he now,” Daud pretended to consider the suggestion, and Emily grinned.

“I need to get back to Callista and her drawing lesson for today, anyway.“

“Drawing lessons, out here?”

“Nature drawings,” Emily prompted, looking somewhat resigned. “I think I’m on my four hundredth leaf.”

“In that case,” Daud said, sketching a bow, “good luck, Your Highness.”

She made a face. “Perhaps. Will you stay for dinner?”

“I have no other plans today.”

“Emily!” Callista’s voice sounded from further up the path, and Daud and Emily looked up to find her waiting there, just at the gate leading towards the gardens. “Welcome back, Daud,” she greeted him, allowing herself a small smile.

“Miss Curnow,“ he nodded at her, knowing better now than to interpret her unwavering composure as contempt. Corvo often joked that all those captains and aristocrats had no idea they had nothing on Emily’s formidable governess, and Daud, who was not habitually scared of anything or anyone, knew he would rather face another Surge than cross Callista.

“Emily, you should finish your drawing before your music tutor arrives,” Callista now addressed her charge.

Daud set his hand on Emily’s shoulder as he would one of his novices. “She’ll make another Sokolov out of you yet.”

Emily sent him a look that, even on so young a face, could only be described as withering. “Why do people insist _young ladies of standing_ must be _accomplished_?” she asked, doubtlessly quoting one of her many tutors. Daud knew Emily greatly enjoyed drawing and painting, and music as well; only he suspected it was the setting of a classroom and not being given free reign in choosing her study subjects that unnerved her.

“Because people are self-important buffoons,” Daud told her drily. “And _don’t_ ,” he added when she giggled, “tell Callista I said that, or there’ll be Void to pay and I will never make it as far as dinner.“

Quickly, Emily calmed herself and nodded earnestly. “Of course, sir.”

He smirked. “Get along,” he gave her shoulder a nudge before letting go. “I’ll find Corvo on my own.”

Emily quickly hugged him around the waist one more time before running off towards Callista. Daud didn’t look over his shoulder to see if Jenkins and Montgomery had been able to restrain their curiosity. Instead, he looked ahead, to the Tower, that tall, imposing building that now felt halfway like home. He started walking, passing more familiar faces as he went. He spied Rinaldo patrolling the perimeter of the gardens, careful not to intrude on Emily’s lesson. Daud raised a hand when Rinaldo turned to face his general direction, and smirked when Rinaldo tapped two fingers against the top of his officer’s helmet in greeting.

Once Daud had reached the main doors, guarded by Misha and Fleet, he wasn’t entirely sure if he should feel anticipation or discomfort at being so exposed; keen eyes — eyes he’d trained — marking his approach.

“Boss,” Galia nodded towards him, Misha following suit.

Daud eyed the tall entrance. Once inside, he would have to make himself scarce and use the awnings and chandeliers to advance towards Corvo’s quarters; but it was a route he’d taken a hundred times before or more.

“At ease,“ he barked, and Galia raised a brow before making a show of crossing her arms and leaning back against the stone wall.

“Like this, sir?” she asked, ignoring Misha’s exasperated stare.

“Just like that, Fleet, just like that,” Daud answered and then, not one to be seen hesitating, set his hands on the reinforced doors. Without another word, he made his way inside.

* * *

 

Corvo did indeed not mind one bit having his meeting with Piero and Sokolov interrupted — the two were arguing more amongst themselves than they were talking to him; and it wasn’t _only_ moments like this that Corvo dearly missed Hypatia’s presence, but certainly some of the most trying. But still, nothing could have prepared him for what he felt when the back doors to his chambers opened to reveal Daud. Corvo’s heart leapt in his chest.

“Daud,” was all he could think to say.

Piero and Sokolov, who had turned upon the intrusion, echoed the sentiment, albeit not quite as enthusiastically.

“Welcome back, Daud,” Piero greeted him amiably, whereas Sokolov merely grunted his agreement.

“Joplin, Sokolov,” Daud nodded at them before closing the doors behind him. He then advanced into the room, towards Corvo’s desk. Daud’s eyes sought his, and Corvo wouldn’t have looked away for anything. “Corvo,” he rumbled, and there was promise in that voice.

Corvo took a moment before clearing his throat. “If you don’t mind,” he gestured to address the two natural philosophers across from him.

“Of course!” Piero readily agreed. “I’m sure Daud has a lot to report. As it happens,” he stood up, and turned to Daud, “since this was your first extended journey after your return from the Void, please do come by the laboratory for a brief examination?”

Corvo watched as Daud ground his teeth, but nodded curtly.

“Thank you. Come on, Anton.”

Sokolov had stood as well, and was regarding Daud with an ill-concealed leer. “Do _report_ to your Spymaster, Daud.” He departed with a nod, following Piero out of the room. Corvo had half a mind to help them along with a bit of Windblast. Such uncharitable thoughts fled, however, when he felt the telltale rush of someone close transversing even closer. Daud was standing next to his chair now, looking down at him with dark eyes. Without asking, without quite knowing what he was doing, Corvo pushed away from the desk, but remained seated.

Daud’s gaze became heated, and before Corvo could say anything he found himself with a lapful of assassin, Daud’s thighs straddling his and hands settling on his shoulders to help him keep his balance.

“Hello,” Corvo murmured, another echo, another memory intruding upon the moment. His eyes caught by Daud’s, he stared up at him; and the tension inside him that he’d thought would loosen the moment he had Daud back only coiled tighter. Slowly, remembering himself, he wrapped his arms around Daud’s back, drawing him closer. To feel the heat of his body so close after so many months… it was different altogether from when Daud had returned from the Void, of course it was, but Corvo found it overwhelming still.

“Hello,” Daud indulged him, smiling with his eyes. “Your agent has returned.”

 _My_ _constant companion_ _, too_ , Corvo thought, the idea still setting his heart to beat at an uncertain cadence.

“So,” Corvo rasped, tilting his head back, “would you like to make your report, or should I answer some of your _questions_ first?”

“That depends,“ Daud murmured, “what have you to say?”

“Mm-mh,” Corvo hummed, shaking his head a little. “You have to _ask_ ,“ he challenged, reining in a smirk when Daud raised his brow.

“Alright,” he nevertheless agreed, no doubt feeling Corvo shudder against him when he slid a hand up his neck and into his hair. “Did you,” his eyes strayed down to Corvo’s lips, “miss me, Lord Protector?”

Corvo’s breath hitched in his throat. Daud narrowed his eyes. Words eluding him, Corvo nodded, leaning up a little.

Daud made a low noise, his fingers snagging in Corvo’s hair, stopping his advance. “You have to _say it_ ,” the same strange challenge in his eyes. Void, but Corvo loved him. Still, he strained in Daud’s grip, seeking his reward.

“I missed you,” he whispered against Daud’s mouth. He drew breath to speak again, but whatever he was going to say was lost when Daud’s lips sealed over his.

*

A while later — shorter than Corvo would have liked, but it _was_ the middle of the Void-damned day, and Corvo had _meetings_ — Daud let Corvo wrap himself around him on the bed, releasing a contented sigh.

“That… escalated,“ he then muttered all the same, sounding somewhat peeved, as though reproaching himself for his own impatience.

“You were gone for three months,“ Corvo reminded him, trailing his fingers from Daud’s hip up to his chest, stopping just short of the ring where it lay against his sternum. Daud hadn’t removed the necklace along with his clothes, and neither had Corvo.

“I’m getting the feeling it won’t matter if it’s three months or three weeks,” Daud rumbled lowly, already facing Corvo when he looked up again.

“How about three days?“ Corvo teased, and Daud’s brow arched. Before Corvo could say anything else, Daud wrapped his right arm around Corvo, too, and then used his bulk to roll them over, trapping Corvo underneath him. He was grinning, his eyes bright.

“Now you’re just fishing.”

Corvo shrugged, but lost the fight to sound blasé, grinning back. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

In lieu of an answer, Daud kissed him again, and it was Corvo’s turn to sigh. They had ten more minutes.

* * *

 

And so, the months passed. Daud stayed in Dunwall for a while after his first mission; for her mother’s celebration and for the weeks afterwards. Emily had been glad for it, as she knew Corvo had been. It had been four years since her mother’s death, most of which they’d spent miserable enough to darken the sky, and Emily was not blind to how much Daud had done for them, ever since the first day at the Hound Pits pub. With the Whalers living at the Tower now, with Daud either there or at his place on Market Street, Emily missed the Hound Pits less than she had after her and Corvo’s solitary return to the throne. She was by no means a sheltered princess in a gilded cage, but at fourteen years old she did not yet fully understand what her mother had sometimes called, ‘the burden of the crown.’ Yet, she knew the day would come, and still — or, perhaps, hence — sometimes she yearned for freedom.

Daud left again, hugging her goodbye at the water lock one foggy morning and nodding at Corvo with a look that said more than she knew they wanted her to see.

He returned just in time for Corvo’s birthday and stayed for hers; and although the traditions of Gristol called for no great production to be made of it (for which she was ever grateful now that she sat the throne), he brought back a thick, leather-bound journal for Corvo and an illustrated edition of Serkonan myths for Emily that Callista tutted at but let her keep anyway.

Emily, determined to find out when _Daud’s_ birthday was, unfortunately did not make much headway in her investigation; as even the Whalers who’d known him the longest professed not to know the date.

“Month of High Cold?“ Fleet speculated, but shrugged, and Rulfio shook his head.

“Month of Ice, I think,“ he said, but wouldn’t name a week, much less a day. It did not help that they were basing their assumptions on ‘when Daud just seemed more baselessly bad-tempered than usual,’ which in him really could mean anything; and Emily disliked thinking that way about anyone.

Distantly, Emily wondered if Billie Lurk might have known. But it was too late to ask her now, wasn’t it.

In any case, the Month of Ice brought the anniversary of Emily’s coronation and Daud was there that day, too, took breakfast with her and Corvo and smirked at her across the table when she complained about the dress Callista had insisted she wear. His unusual good mood cheered her, then, and the day seemed less foreboding.

Emily spent as much time as she could with Alexi, who she was proud to call her closest friend after a mere few months. Alexi had been a little intimidated the first time she’d visited the Tower, not least seeing as it had been Galia who had escorted her from her parents' home in Drapers Ward, but any shyness soon gave way to her happy manner, which rendered her sure of making friends. She’d met Daud eventually as well, had feared his scarred face and furrowed brow at first, but Emily had promised her that that was just how he dealt with strangers. Alexi had no idea who he was, only knew his name and that she wasn’t to mention his presence at the Tower to her parents, or anyone else. Emily felt bad to ask her to lie — if only by omission — but Corvo explained to Alexi that Daud’s being a spy for the Crown needed to be kept a secret, more than his being ‘a friend of the family.’

Over time, Emily and Alexi took carriage rides together as often as they could, sometimes with Corvo but usually with Rinaldo or Galia. Jameson Curnow accompanied them sometimes, too, as he’d decided, after his sixteenth birthday, to enter the City Watch and follow in his uncle’s footsteps. Corvo and Daud insisted they go out on different days and different hours every time, so as not to ‘establish a pattern,’ and Emily saw the sense in it even as it made arranging these outings more cumbersome than it was already; what with Emily’s council meetings and lessons, and Alexi helping out at her parents’ shop. After all, the City Watch needed to be told at least two days in advance, to increase patrols and keep checkpoints running smoothly to avoid any delays along the route.

It was a nice enough day near the end of the Month of Timber, the air slowly getting warmer and the sun climbing higher in the Southern sky, as if already calling for the Fugue. Another year had nearly passed — it was 1841 now, nearly five years since Emily had lost her mother and gained a throne she'd coveted in the way a child did their parents' grown-up possessions.

Emily and Alexi were out with Rinaldo that day, the royal carriage taking them from the Tower District through the Estate District and down to the Riverfront. As they passed by, merchants or pedestrians would recognise the carriage, would bow in greeting. Children would sometimes race alongside the tracks until their parents or a Watch officer stopped them, and Emily and Alexi would wave at them until they passed from view.

On the return journey, Emily and Alexi teased Rinaldo about his persistent habit to wear gloves, even now as the warmer seasons were approaching.

“It’s because Daud won’t stop wearing his, either,” Emily told Alexi in a mock aside. “Like father, like son.”

“Daud’s your father?” Alexi asked Rinaldo, her eyes wide with awe.

“In the figurative sense,“ Rinaldo told them, shooting Emily a warning look. She grinned at him. “He took me on when I was a kid.”

“As a spy?” Alexi’s eyes grew even wider.

“Yes,” Rinaldo said simply, giving her no more than plain confirmation so as not to invite further questions. Emily knew that tactic well — it had stopped working on her a while ago. They’d passed into the Tower District earlier than expected, as they’d had to bypass a section of the Estate District due to construction work on road rails, and Emily could hear the guard’s surprise as he hurriedly called ahead for the main checkpoint to open the first of the gates on the way into the Tower. Any visitor to the Tower that arrived by rail car would be admitted only into the first gate; the second, main gate remaining closed while Watch guards inspected the visitor’s papers and the carriage itself. Their car would halt as well, and Rinaldo would check the undercarriage for unlikely stowaways or other… surprises.

The car stopped between the two gates, the front gate lowered to prevent anyone else from entering with them. Rinaldo exited the car, ready to go about his duties, and Emily looked out the other window, craning her neck to take a peek at the crowd. Quite a few people were milling about by the main guard station today; generally these were nobles or politicians waiting to be escorted into the Tower for a meeting either with her or Corvo. Emily recognised a few faces, but there were more people around than usual and she did not remember to have met many of them. Rinaldo crossed to her side of the carriage, smiling at her before running his hands along the top of the car.

Suddenly, however, his head swivelled to the left — something had drawn his attention.

“Emily, Alexi, get down,“ he hissed, his dark eyes fixed on the crowd outside the gates.

“What?” Alexi whispered in alarm. Emily reached for her shoulder to draw her down and towards her, but didn’t move away from the window.

“Rinaldo, what—”

A shot rang out, and a bullet struck the stone to their left. Emily felt as though her body was going hot and cold at the same time. She curled her fingers tighter into Alexi’s shoulder.

 _No_ , she thought. _Not again. No more._

Rinaldo drew his blade and pistol. “Stay down,” he ordered, not speaking to his Empress but to the girl he had sworn to protect.

Before Emily could say or do anything, Alexi grabbed her and pulled her down in between the seats. Instinctively, she resisted.

“We have to _do_ something,“ she hissed, but Alexi held her tighter.

“You’re the Empress,” Alexi hissed back; and it was the first time her friend had even addressed her thus.

Clamouring rose from outside the gates, fearful screams and angry shouts. Where were the guards? Dead, most likely, Emily’s mind supplied, shot first to render them unable to raise the alarm. Then, they would have barricaded the checkpoint door. There were guards patrolling from the gardens down towards the gate, but it would take minutes for them to make another pass, unless someone was close enough to hear. After all, they’d returned early. That left — Rinaldo. More shots sounded, the attackers firing at the carriage, Rinaldo shooting back. Alexi cried out in alarm when a bullet struck the outside of the car, but Emily knew that these carriages could withstand more than simple pistol rounds.

Another shot bounced off the steel exterior, a sick metal screeching sound that made Emily’s stomach turn; but it was what she heard next that frightened her more. Rinaldo, crying out in pain, too startled to hide it as all Whalers had been taught. Emily shook off Alexi’s hold and rushed to peek out the carriage window: Rinaldo was down on one knee, hand clutching his abdomen. His eyes went to hers immediately, and he mouthed, ‘No.’ Then, he raised his pistol again to fire, pushing himself back up; but the attackers had stopped firing at the carriage. Instead, they shot at Rinaldo, and Emily had to suppress a squeal when a bullet struck the ground by his feet.

He didn’t stagger, didn’t flinch, just kept firing, but at least one among the attackers had to have been a decent marksman — the next shot went wide, but then another rang out, and Rinaldo did stumble when the bullet pierced his left shoulder. His arm faltered, and even if he got off another shot, it would land at someone’s feet just like the other. But Emily knew he would not move to safety, would instead draw the attackers’ fire his way until help arrived. Or until he was dead on the ground. It wasn’t the first time Rinaldo had put himself between her and a deadly threat, only then Corvo and Daud had been there, too. Emily knew well enough that, as Empress, people had died for her, and would. She would not let Rinaldo be among them.

Emily was about to unlock the carriage door when her hands were pushed away. Incensed, she turned to Alexi to — to cry, to yell at her, she hardly even knew — when she saw the expression on her friend’s face.

“Not alone,“ Alexi said quietly, then pushed open the door and jumped out first.

Emily followed.

Half a dozen men stood outside the gate, pistols raised. At coming face to face with the Empress they wanted dead, they faltered, if only for a moment.

“Get Rinaldo!” Alexi cried, and Emily moved without questioning. Rinaldo had fallen to his knees, bleeding heavily from the wound in his shoulder and one in his stomach, his uniform almost black with it.

“Emily,” he gritted out through his teeth. “No.”

“Too late,“ she told him, bending down sling his good arm over her shoulder, reaching around his back; Alexi coming up on his other side. Emily realised he was too broad for her to get a good grip on his waist, so she fisted her hand into the back of his coat while Alexi did the same. “Up.”

Grunting with pain, Rinaldo pushed himself upright, and Emily and Alexi helped him stagger towards the carriage and around, propping him up between the front wheels. She knew that putting pressure on a wound helped stem the blood flow, but when she reached out, Rinaldo stopped her.

“Not… my blood on your hands,” he said, breathing heavily through his nose with pain and the effort it took to speak.

“Emily!” Alexi cried, pointing at something. Emily followed her gaze.

Instead of using the opportunity to try and shoot them as they helped Rinaldo, one of attackers had unchecked a grenade, and thrown it towards them. It landed right at their feet. They had seconds.

For a moment, Emily couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

Alexi did, instead.

When Emily looked up, her friend was racing past them, and reaching for the grenade.

“Alexi!” Emily cried, lunging after her, but Rinaldo had already reached for her, to draw her towards him and shield her with his body. “No!”

In a moment of blind, numbing panic, Emily watched as Alexi picked up the grenade and kept running, then drew back her arm — and threw the explosive back towards the gate. It should have been impossible — it _was_ impossible; but the grenade slipped through the bars of the gate, rolling back towards their attackers’ feet. Panicked shouts yelled to “get clear!” Alexi skidded to a halt, turning back towards the carriage, but she stumbled and landed headlong in the gravel just as the grenade went off.

Emily wrenched away from Rinaldo to help her, when she saw something else to make her gut kick with fear. One of the attackers had climbed up the gate, and pried open the hatch with a crowbar. Those hatches had been built for the sole purpose of retrieving someone trapped if the gates ever malfunctioned. Now, they were used to try and kill. The man climbed through, and dropped down, drawing his pistol.

Anger surged inside Emily, anger she had felt and done her best to hide ever since her mother’s death. She had seen Corvo try to do the same at the Hound Pits, only to end up speaking hardly more than three words some days and taking it out on Daud during sparring for the rest of them. Emily hadn’t had that luxury — she’d had sums instead, and geography and history, and Callista reprimanding her not to draw during lessons. She had seen her paintings made Corvo happy, had found that he was content to watch her draw while Daud cursed paperwork under his breath, and so she had done that, instead. Had been sweet, and kind, had endured the nightmares. Then, a witch had tried to possess her. Daud had gone to the Void to protect her. And now, Rinaldo lay bleeding behind her, Alexi struggled to force air back into her lungs, and Emily was no fool. If that man reached her and had a bullet left, he’d put it in her head.

Emily saw what had made Alexi stumble — a protruding railway brace that must have come loose and had not yet been fixed. She bent down and, with a shout, wrenched it free. She had no idea what she might look like, frightened or snarling with fury. It didn’t matter.

The man was close enough, raising the gun; but this close she could see he was shaking, his eyes wide. So she moved first.

Emily swung for his arm, knocking the pistol out of his hand. The man cried out in pain, grasping his wrist with his other hand.

“You little bi—“

He didn’t get to finish as Emily kicked him between the legs, just as Daud had shown her. She remembered that lesson well.

“If anyone tries to hurt you, you break their hand first and then their nose,” he’d told her, demonstrating casually (on poor Rulfio, no less). “And if you know you can, kick them right in the balls.” Corvo had scolded Daud from across the yard, but he’d been grinning, too, just before putting Thomas on his back with a leg sweep.

Now, the man in front of her was on his knees and red in the face, and Emily paid no mind to the attackers still assembled outside the gate as she brought the steel brace down on his shoulder. She wouldn’t aim for his head, but going by the cry of pain he let out, she’d just broken his arm.

Good.

Another explosion ripped through the air, but it came from the guard station — officers had broken the barricade, most likely using sticky grenades. From behind, Emily could hear shouted orders, and recognised the voices: Whalers, thundering down the path towards the Tower like a pack of hounds. One of the officers got to the control switch ahead, and the gates raised; the Whalers storming past her to help the other Watch guards round up the attackers, who’d all dropped their pistols. Galia put herself between Emily and the man who’d attacked her and backhanded him with the butt of her pistol, hard. He collapsed at their feet, unconscious, and Galia looked back at Emily.

“Well done,“ she said grimly.

“Emily!”

Emily dropped the brace and turned, seeing Corvo run towards her. Usually, he waited just past the gate to meet her, but today… today, they had returned early. She ran towards him and flung herself into his arms. He embraced her tightly and she hugged him back with all her strength, but pulled back quickly to look up at him.

“Rinaldo, he’s hurt.” She leaned past Corvo to see, and watched just as Misha and Kieron heaved Rinaldo up between them, then vanished, transversing him up towards the Tower. Jenkins and Dodge were kneeling next to Alexi, who sat leaning back against one of the carriage wheels, pale and wide-eyed.

“Piero’s in the lab, he’ll take care of him until Sokolov arrives,” Corvo told her. “We need to get you inside.” He cast a glance over Emily’s head. “They’re being taken to Coldridge,“ he said quietly, “the long way ‘round, through the canal.“ He started walking, dragging her along, and Emily followed without protest. On the way, Corvo motioned for Jenkins and Dodge to bring Alexi along. Emily looked over her shoulder as they went, but her eyes weren’t on her friend.

Where Rinaldo had been sitting, blood stained the ground.

* * *

 

Daud paced Corvo’s chambers for what felt like hours, cursing the Void for not being able to draw his blade and race down with the others. He’d been with Corvo when Rulfio had practically crashed through the door; his only words:

“Emily’s carriage is under attack.“

Corvo had stood so quickly his chair had tipped over, and Daud’s own hand had been on the hilt of his sword before he could remember moving. Corvo’s fingers had clamped down on his arm.

“You can’t,” the words were hissed at him, and then Corvo was gone, half running, half blinking down the corridor, his Mark incandescent as he called all Whalers who carried his Bond.

“Sir?” Simmons had asked from the doorway, seemingly frightened he’d have to try and keep Daud up here; not that he’d have stood a chance.

Daud had merely nodded, and resigned himself to waiting; his mind already racing. _How?_

Minutes later, the door opened, Corvo half-carrying Emily through, who looked close enough to shock. Daud didn’t stop to think before he moved, bending down in front of her, searching for visible injuries. Save for a scrape on her cheek she probably didn’t even feel, she looked to be unharmed, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside him. He should have _been_ there. How dare anyone attack the _Empress_ in broad daylight, how dare anyone attack _his kid_ —

That last thought nearly knocked him sideways, but he was called back to the world by Emily wrapping her arms around him and stifling a sob against his shoulder.

“Daud,” she cried as he moved to hold her. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

Confused and worried, Daud raised his eyes to Corvo, then looked around them. Jenkins and Dodge had brought in Alexi, who—who had blood stains on her vest, but wasn’t injured, or she would have been taken down to the laboratory. _Not her blood._ Daud swallowed, and looked back to Corvo, whose expression was dark with the same rage Daud worked so hard to leash.

“Where’s Rinaldo?”

* * *

 

Rulfio stood before Corvo’s desk, spread out across the tabletop lay the evidence he’d brought back. It was an uncanny echo of almost a year ago, when he’d presented the findings of his investigation into Brockburn and his friends, business partners, and acquaintances. Back then, it had taken him nearly a month to gather all the information he could on more than two dozen people.

With these eight, it had gone a little quicker. Silently, Corvo and Daud waited for his report.

“Brockburn,” Rulfio began, “had friends.” He paused. “Friends we didn’t know about; and neither did he. Sympathisers to the cause from Serkonos and Morley, told of his arrest and imprisonment.“ After the investigation into the Hatter deal, they hadn’t been able to charge everyone of Brockburn’s circle; and a few had left Dunwall after the dust had settled. “He’s been in jail for nearly a year now, apparently a few of them banded together and came to Dunwall to ‘honour’ him in some way.”

“By attacking Emily?” Daud asked, his eyes piercing Rulfio the way he remembered. The way he got when there was no room for error, because one simple mistake could get them all killed. Rulfio remembered, too, that once upon a time, Daud would now have referred to her as ‘Empress.’ Was it comforting, he wondered, or frightening, that even the Old Knife had gotten too close? He still remembered Corvo’s face the day of Burrows’ execution. Corvo had taken over that duty himself, had him face him instead of shooting him in the back of his bald head. The guards had turned away. Daud hadn’t been there, but Rulfio and some of the others had watched as not even taking the life of Empress Jessamine’s murderer had given Corvo back any of what he’d lost.

“There were no initial plans for an attack,” Rulfio explained, pointing at a stack of _meeting minutes_. Those bastards held _meetings_ now. “They wanted to cause a ruckus, petition — publicly — to release Brockburn and the others. Plenty of potential to harm the Crown with that, but they weren’t looking to hurt Emily.” Rulfio had frantically searched for clues and evidence of a pre-planned assassination, and had found none. “This was, for all intents and purposes, a coincidence.”

“Coincidence,“ Corvo demanded. “They knew where Emily was going to _be_.”

“They’ve been in Dunwall for a few days, trying to make up their minds. In collecting information, they decided to scope out a few taverns oft frequented by members of the Watch.” Rulfio watched as the coin dropped.

“Someone talked,” Daud rasped.

Rulfio nodded. “They took a lower watch guard out back and got him drunk enough to tell them that the Empress was going to be taking the royal carriage out that day.”

“Who?”

Rulfio could only shake his head.

“If they don’t want to talk, I’d be happy to give them an incentive,” Daud growled.

“They refuse to give up the guard’s name, and we can’t very well parade the entire Watch into Coldridge for a line-up. But,” Rulfio forestalled their objections, “I found a witness. Someone who saw the attackers with the guard.“ Rulfio consulted his notes. “One Officer Mortimer Ramsey, member of the Tower District guard. He came to me. He was part of the arrest party, recognised one of them, and put two and two together.“

Corvo sat back in his chair. “A coincidence,” he muttered, sounding as disbelieving as Rulfio felt.

“They’d brought the pistols, even the grenades, with them. Just in case they got into a skirmish with the Watch,” Rulfio reported further, then scoffed. Emily hadn’t even been their target until the opportunity had practically dropped into their laps. “The carriage having to divert because of roadwork in the Estate District played into their hands.” They’d have stood no chance with Corvo there to receive Emily; but then, even if the carriage had been on time, Corvo could have been delayed…

This whole thing had been, in a word, a clusterfuck.

“If they’d been planning this, we’d have caught them in time,” Rulfio concluded.

“Whether they had this planned for months or not,” Daud said, closing the file he was holding with a snap, “they will now be charged with treason.”

“And their punishment?“ Rulfio asked. It might have been a rhetorical question, but things had ceased being quite so simple with a child on the throne, and by her side two men who could have burnt the city to the ground to see her safe but had _chosen_ not to.

Corvo answered in Daud’s stead: “That’s up to Emily.”

Daud’s jaw ticked.

* * *

 

“Where will you go?” Corvo asked, arms crossed over his chest, as he watched Daud gather things to stuff into his pack from the old chest in the corner. They were in Daud’s quarters in Market Street.

“Karnaca first.”

“And what will you do when you get there?“ There was apprehension in Corvo’s voice that gave Daud pause. He looked down at his hands holding his blade, ready to sheath it, his gloves taut across his knuckles. He looked up and met Corvo’s unforgiving gaze.

“You think I’m going on a hunt,” Daud growled.

“What else am I supposed to think?” Corvo asked roughly, and Daud swallowed. He knew that Corvo wasn’t blind to Daud’s struggles with the Void inside him, the uncertainty that still clouded his sense of who he was. The question was not any easier to answer now than it had been a year ago. Daud did not know any more now than when he lay wrapped in Corvo’s arms, sparred with Emily and the Whalers, or crouched on a rooftop waiting for the Clocktower to chime; but it seemed less daunting not to when he did. And then, every time he left Dunwall, he stepped back into the cold.

“They’re hardly worth the effort,” Daud said gathered more supplies. “And a hunt is not a hunt without blood.”

“Then why are they worth your time at all?” Corvo asked.

Satisfied with what he’d collected, Daud closed the chest and locked it. He wrapped up his pack, deposited it on the bed, and turned back to Corvo. Stepped right up to him. “I want to see their faces. I want to see them with my own eyes, and decide whether they belong in a prison cell.” He tilted his head. “You want the same,” he hazarded. “But you can’t go. I can.”

Corvo remained silent, and Daud knew he remembered times gone by; a Hatter in a dark alleyway and Daud’s abdication of control. Daud had not had another lapse like that since. He would never risk a _mission_.

“I want to make sure none of them ever dare to _think_ about getting near our kid,” Daud growled, and the words spoken out loud damn near surprised him well enough. He expected Corvo to shove at him, to snarl at him for daring to try and lay claim to Emily like that. He did not expect Corvo to lay a possessive hand on the back of his head and haul him close enough to kiss him.

* * *

 

> **_DUNWALL COURIER_ **
> 
> _5_ _th _ _Day, Month of_ _Clans_ _, 1841_
> 
> _What happened last week at the gates of Dunwall Tower will perhaps one day be heralded as the definitive moment when people stopped calling Emily Kaldwin ‘the Child Empress.’ It came after an ambush by the ‘Regenters,’ an extremist group who wanted to take revenge against members of Parliament and the Empress herself for averting the former Royal Spymaster Hiram Burrows’ ascent to power and the regency after the assassination of Empress Jessamine._
> 
> _On the way back to Dunwall Tower, Kaldwin's carriage was blocked between two gates, with her attackers firing pistols, and even throwing a grenade. With the Royal Protector too far away to be of service and her Watch-appointed bodyguard, Rinaldo Escobar, severely wounded, the young Empress, only_ _fourteen_ _, found herself all alone in the carriage, save for her friend, Alexi Mayhew._
> 
> _Kaldwin supporters are lucky that Mayhew was there, as she was brave enough to grab a grenade that had landed at their feet, throwing it back at the assailants and saving the Empress. When one of the men dropped down from the forward gate, it was Emily Kaldwin who yanked free a short railway brace and beat the man senseless with it. With the City Watch closing in, the two girls held their ground against the debris of the carriage until the situation was secure._
> 
> _It is said that Emily Kaldwin refused to have the ‘Regenters’ executed for their crimes, and this is hailed by many as her first adult decision as Empress._
> 
> _Alexi Mayhew, cited for her heroic actions, is rumoured to have plans to enter the City Watch when she comes of age._

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Corvo was in his quarters, alone. They'd gotten through — someone had gotten through, again. And he hadn't seen them coming. He'd overlooked Brockburn's connections to Karnaca as no significant threat. Rulfio had argued that, if there was no plan to know about beforehand, it was impossible to guard against it, but that wasn't true. As Royal Protector and Spymaster, Corvo had to guard against _every_ possibility. Every threat, every potential stopgap in Emily's security and safety. And he'd failed. Corvo was no diplomat, but even less was he a spymaster. A spy, he could be — their master? It had seemed the better way in the beginning, knowing Daud would refuse the position and there being no-one else Corvo could begin to trust to take it. But now… he doubted he should continue.

A knock sounded, then Simmons opened the door.

“Sir,” he said quietly, “Samuel Beechworth is here to see you.”

Corvo gladly abandoned the paperwork he’d been slaving over and waved for Simmons to let him in. Samuel stepped past Simmons, thanking him, and the young guard bowed out.

“Samuel,” Corvo greeted the boatman, embracing him easily. “It’s good to see you.“

“Corvo,” Samuel responded warmly. His presence would always be a comfort, both to Corvo and to Emily. “I came to see you and Emily. I even bring gifts,” he said when they parted.

Corvo bade him to sit by the fire, and went to his desk to pour another cup of tea before joining him there. “Gifts?”

Samuel drew a small wooden boat from his coat, hand-carved and painted. “I made this for Emily while I was travelling,” he said, “thought she might like a souvenir, even from a journey she wasn’t on.“

Corvo smiled gratefully as Samuel tucked the gift away again. “You know she loves your carvings. She’ll be happy to know you’re back in Dunwall.”

“I came back fast as I could, after hearing what happened.” Here, Samuel’s expression turned serious. “You got the bastards, right? All of them?”

“All that were in Dunwall,” Corvo answered, pressing his lips together for a moment. “Daud is… he’s looking for the rest of them.”

“I know,” Samuel said, surprising Corvo. Frowning at him in confusion, Corvo accepted Samuel’s other ‘gift’ when he took it from his pocket and handed it over. “Deckhand named Ternion ran it to me when I arrived at the docks. Clever sod. I recognised Daud’s handwriting.” Samuel pointed at what was inscribed on the back of the envelope.

> _To be delivered to_ _the Office of_ _the_ _Royal Protector, Lord Corvo Attano._
> 
> _Confidential._

Corvo fought not to rip the letter open right away. Samuel, observant as ever, softly cleared his throat.

“Is Emily busy with her lessons, or is she in the library? I could go down to see her, give you a moment.“

“She’s… she’s in the library with Callista,” Corvo gathered himself. “Thank you, Samuel, I—. Thank you.“

Samuel stood, taking his cup of tea, and set a hand on Corvo’s shoulder. “Everything alright?“

Corvo nodded. “I worry, is all. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“But _you’re_ alright, you and Daud?”

Corvo couldn’t help but smile. Samuel had always known, hadn’t he? He’d just never said in as many words. “We’re alright.“

“Read your man’s letter,” Samuel told him. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Corvo waited until Samuel had left the room, then opened the letter. In Daud’s familiar script, it read —

> _Corvo —_
> 
> _I’ve followed the remaining Regenters' trail to Karnaca. They’re shaken by what their compatriots did, and scared — of us. Or, rather, of you._ _Dead scared._ _They’ll hold still, of that I’m sure, not least because they’re cowards._ _And if not… we’ll know where to find them._
> 
> _I’ll be back as soon as I can._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _— Daud_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) So this was when I posted about Corvo unlocking that new kink............  
> b) Daud's so happy to be home, even if he still doesn't understand what coming home actually *means*  
> c) Emily is the sweetest bean and also a goddamn badass and oh my gOD ALEXI  
> d) Rinaldo will be fine, I promise. (She says, knowing full well her promises mean nothing to y'all.)  
> e) DAUD DID THE THING. HE ADMITTED HE'S A DAD.  
> f) Also, some delicious Rulfio POV!  
> g) Daud signed his letter with 'I love you' *weeps*
> 
> # http://dishonored.wikia.com/wiki/The_Child_Empress


	3. Chapter Two — I said there’d been a flood, I said there’s nothing left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily takes over the throne, Corvo gives the best birthday presents, and Daud pays a visit to Addermire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, we made it through another two weeks!! A huge thank-you to everyone who's been keeping up with the series and this story so far! <3 <3
> 
> Aight, so — this is the chapter where all the happy stuff goes to embarrass us all. Remember my pattern of writing something really fluffy right before the gut-wrenching bits? Yeeee. Only this time, it's CHAPTER SCALE. But for now: enjoy the fluff!!
> 
> Song: [Kiss the Sky, by Shawn Lee's Ping Pong Orchestra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pHQuCezmLE&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN&index=58&t=0s).

**Month of Harvest, 1845**

“Again,” Daud called from the sidelines. “Keep your guard up, Alexi. Empress or not, knock her on her ass.”

Emily grinned as she extended her arm to help her friend up before they took up positions again, absently noting that Daud’s encouragement earned him a weak glare and even more half-assed knock in the shoulder from Corvo as he passed behind him. Daud’s expression didn’t change.

Spurred into action, Alexi used Emily’s brief distraction and managed to break her guard, steel grating over steel as she knocked the rapier aside and forced Emily to take a step back and regain her footing.

After the carriage attack, Corvo and Daud had begun training Emily in earnest — finally letting her at the practice swords displayed on the racks; after a while even letting her spar with the Whalers, _and_ letting the Whalers use their powers to test her. She knew Daud had spent weeks badgering Corvo to allow the latter. But the true test had come when Alexi had declared her decision to enter the City Watch when she was old enough, already putting what money she could aside to pay for her commission. Emily wanted her friend to train with her; Corvo and even Daud had been hesitant. Alexi knew many of their secrets, but not all of them. How would Alexi be able to protect her, Emily argued, if she did not know all that there was to know; and she hoped, fervently, that Alexi would one day agree to serve in the Tower guard.

Eventually they had agreed, and Alexi had been introduced not to the guards and officers she knew, but to the Crown's agents once known was the Whalers, some of whom drew their powers from Daud as they had in the old days, and some from Corvo. Alexi, fifteen years old and standing in a room surrounded by heretics, had swallowed, and then taken Emily’s hand.

“I want to learn,“ she’d said. And that, as they said, had been that.

A great many things had happened since the people of Dunwall had stopped calling her ‘the Child Empress,’ and she was working up to rescinding the title entirely as she prepared to take over full control of her throne and the Empire. She would turn eighteen in only a few weeks, she would _become_ Empress Emily Kaldwin, first of her name, and release Corvo from his burdens and duties as shadow regent. The prospect excited her even as it frightened her. Corvo — and with him, others who had watched her grow up and whom she now counted amongst her closest friends — had guided her well, but he had also always impressed upon her that he could not prepare her for what it meant to wear (and indeed to bear) the crown.

Emily sighed as she stepped into her study after the sparring session, closing the door behind her, knowing that Rinaldo would take up his post at the top of the stairs without her having to give the order. ‘Only your mother before you,’ Corvo’s words followed her whenever she thought of what was to come. Emily could only hope she might discover the secret: of how to rule and to believe that one's rule was just, of how to be the Empress her mother wanted her to be. Who was that, she wondered? The girl frowning back at her when she looked in the mirror gave no answer. Sometimes she still felt as though she was merely trying on her mother's shoes as young girls might, playing pretend but knowing it would all go back into the closet when play time was over and Callista called her for her lessons. But there was no more play time now; and if it was her who saw the girl in the mirror, then so would others see it in her eyes. She could not afford to appear a girl at Court, or Parliament.

Sometimes, all she wanted to do was to run — to escape, across the sky and towards the horizon. To do the things she knew Corvo did, and Daud, and the Whalers; letting the shadows obscure all but their eyes, glowing in the dark. That was how she thought of them sometimes, spectres going where she could not. Free, she thought.

Daud returned from his missions with secrets nipping at his heels, and Corvo spent his nights on the rooftops, patrolling the city. Her city. Together, they’d raised an Empress, and taught her well. But when the time came, would they teach her how to move through the shadows, too?

She sat and went through a stack of mail left on her desk. Corvo vetted all but her most private correspondence, and more than once she’d had to roll her eyes when, in addition to his notes added to the bottom of letters or reports, she found some in Daud’s hand as well, reliably and succinctly informing her of some curious little factoid or other that he had discovered; for her to weave into a conversation or letter whenever the subject of such observations was presenting themselves to be… reluctant. All of that was to say that Daud encouraged her to use extortion and blackmail whenever possible and Corvo wasn’t looking (although of course he was, just choosing not to rise to the bait), and all it served to do was remind her of the time when she was sixteen and Daud was teaching her how to pick locks, telling her that “it's only larceny if you're not good enough to pick the lock.”

Corvo, who had obligingly locked up all cabinets and dressers in his chambers for them to practise, had caught Emily’s gaze across the room with the expression of a man who knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

Other such lessons had included Daud quoting an old Morley poem at her: 'Why then the world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open.' Upon which Thomas and Galia had passed by them during sparring, Thomas biting out between blade strikes that it meant to "take what's yours, Your Highness;" with Galia adding, her teeth bared as she blocked, "Violently, with a sword."

Emily stopped short when she saw that she had a report from Sokolov. Still serving as Director of the Academy of Natural Philosophy as well as Royal Physician (even though Emily saw more of his erstwhile apprentice and prospective successor, Doctor Toksvig), Sokolov had agreed to taking point on one last project, together with Piero: creating and testing viable prototypes for new power technologies. Whale oil rationing had slowed the severity of the problem, but Gristol was still hurtling towards the darkness if alternatives were not found soon. 'Soon,' in development terms, being at least twenty, perhaps thirty years — but implementing new technologies and transforming an entire city, let alone an empire, took time. More time than they had at their disposal. Emily had read, of course, about Karnaca’s wind technology and the streams coming through the Shindaerey Cleft. If the whale oil trade buckled before new technologies were functional, Karnaca would go dark long after the other Isles had doused their lanterns. And so, Sokolov and Piero were working feverishly.

One of their students, a young Serkonan named Kirin Jindosh, was supposed to work on it with them, but he had been expelled just the year before. The exact circumstances were unknown, and Anton and Piero refused to reveal more even to her and Corvo. After his arrival to Dunwall, Jindosh had been hailed as ‘the new Sokolov,’ sure to surpass his masters in ingenuity and skill; a true inventor’s spirit. The silvergraph technology he had pioneered had changed not only what was perceived as art, but the practice of record-keeping as well. Kirin Jindosh, everyone had declared, would bring about an age of enlightenment. But then, he’d been expelled from the Academy for reasons undisclosed to the public, and deported back to Karnaca just as swiftly. Of course there were rumours — of machines he’d built that had been taken apart immediately after his expulsion, and were now impossible to reassemble. More disturbing, perhaps, were the rumours of the Heart: the Academy owned the replica of an artefact — a fantasy, really — that Piero had built. A human heart, held together with shards of glass and wires; said to have come to him in a series of disturbing dreams years ago. Emily had seen it exhibited at the Academy. Corvo had refused to come near the thing, and she’d teased him for his superstitions. And now, Jindosh was rumoured to have built a _functional_ version of it, supposed to have operated for exactly thirteen minutes before burning to ash. Emily could only wonder if that had been the reason for his removal from the Academy.

Emily shrugged off the thought to focus on reading Sokolov’s letter and was pleased to find that he and Piero were certain enough to have found a viable solution to present to her and Corvo a small prototype at their earliest convenience. Seeing as Corvo had already read it, he had left a note for her at the bottom of the report, suggesting a date and time a week hence. Emily checked her own diary, even knowing that Corvo would have chosen an opening in his schedule that worked with her own. Sometimes, she was tempted to change his title to Royal Spymaster and Secretary, it would serve as a much better description of what he perceived his duties to be. But then, Emily knew that this would not last for much longer — another consequence of her impending coming of age. Sometimes she entertained the notion that he would use the opportunity to lighten some of the burden that rested on his shoulders; but whenever she suggested it, he looked at her as though she’d grown an extra set of ears just to better hear him tell her no.

Emily didn’t think it was too much to ask, personally. And besides, she wasn’t expecting Corvo to collect Daud and move to one of the islands just off the coast of Serkonos to enjoy the sun — not that Daud would let himself be collected. But Corvo had apprentices already: the Whalers, chief among them Galia and Rinaldo. Rulfio had continued to work most closely with Daud, Thomas had become Geoff Curnow’s right hand and most trusted officer in a manner of years (and, if Emily’s instincts didn’t deceive her, more than merely a _friend_ ); and ever since accepting Corvo’s powers, Sergeant Simmons had distinguished himself under Thomas’ tutelage. Alexi herself would make a fine captain one day, of that Emily had no doubt; and only recently Jameson had expressed his interest in not only advising Emily at Court, but in working for Corvo as his eyes and ears in noble (and less so) circles. She sighed. For now, she understood that Corvo wanted to remain in his position as both Protector and Spymaster (as he practically shared the latter post with Daud), but it was obvious to her as well as anyone that the foundations for a peaceful — and safe — transition had been laid.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting her thoughts, and she bade to enter. Alexi stepped through, and Emily immediately dropped her mail and got up.

"There you are!" She rounded the desk and opened her arms. Alexi, with an almost shy smile, stepped close for them to hug. "I haven't seen you since your commission," Emily complained, allowing herself to whine just for a moment; Alexi would know to take it in jest.

"They've been keeping me busy at the barracks," Alexi muttered against her shoulder, being just a little shorter than Emily. "And I didn't want to be seen running to my Empress at the first sign of trouble."

Emily pulled away a little to be able to see Alexi's expression at the mention of 'trouble.' She looked tired, but content. "Have they been 'keeping you busy,' or made you into a training dummy?"

Alexi hugged her tighter briefly, then let go and stepped back. "Busy," she affirmed and assuaged Emily's worries.

"Good," Emily nodded, then dithered a little. She ought to return to her desk, but… she gave in, and leaned forward to press a small kiss to Alexi's forehead, as they had often done as children. It was all she dared, lest she slipped to reveal her regard for Alexi to be more than that of a friend, lest everything changed. She knew Alexi's dedication to the City Watch, to protecting the people of Dunwall, superseded everything. Emily would not get in the way of that.

* * *

This far into Emily's reign, and so close to the time when Corvo would publicly acknowledge the Empress as his daughter, the Council was ever more persistent in advising him to take a wife of standing. By virtue of his rank, it would be a step up for _her_ , but by virtue of his low birth, marrying a Dunwall noblewoman would improve _his_ status among the aristocracy. It was all quite tedious — of course, Emily's advisors had their own friends they would have liked to see in a position so close to the throne; and Corvo was being made bright eyes at by ladies of the court hoping to make a handsome match more than before now. While Jessamine had been alive, such attempts had been subdued, as even without an official claim being laid to him, everyone could have seen how taken he was with her if they'd bothered to look beyond their own ruffled collars. And now, even though rumours were that he was indeed taken (still, or again, no-one could quite say), the attempts had flared back to life in a way that both amused and unnerved Corvo. He had never asked for such attentions and felt unsure in receiving them; which thankfully he was adept at hiding behind an impassive face.

After one particularly tiring public audience, Corvo returned to his quarters and told Daud of one particularly persistent young lady.

Daud, to his credit, didn't even look up from his paper when he replied, “Well, we've got another ten minutes before our meeting with Emily, so if you'd like to go back and marry her…”

Corvo stepped close and tilted the top of the paper down with two fingers. Daud looked up at him, his eyes filled with amusement.

"Is she good-looking, at least?"

Corvo shrugged. "She is." He leaned down to kiss Daud. "But not as handsome as the one I'd rather call mine."

* * *

On the subject of handsomeness, Daud had only this to say: he vividly remembered when Corvo had received his new uniform — new vest and coat, dark blue rather than black, trousers, and boots — and worn it that night to an official dinner held at the Tower, which Daud had been consigned to watching from the shadows and _simmer_ _ing_ with rage. (Lust. It was lust. He had finally abandoned all dignity.) When the banquet was over and Corvo and Daud back in their quarters, Daud had practically ripped the precious garb off him, having had to watching him prance around in it for the rest of the evening.

Corvo had grinned very, very smugly.

* * *

“Devin Brockburn bled out in his cell last night,” Daud read aloud to Corvo as he walked the width of his chambers, from the fireplace towards the desk. “Shanked for coin he didn’t even have on him.”

“Look-away money?” Corvo interrupted his own reading and looked up at Daud as he came closer.

“So they thought. Brockburn managed to talk one of the guards into extending his privileges. Another inmate thought he was bribing the guard and attacked him. Didn’t have anything in his pockets but lint and a game of Nancy.” Daud sat in one of the chairs across from him — after so many years, still the side he favoured. And, granted, Corvo’s desk was not large enough to accommodate both of them to work at the same time.

Corvo sighed. Even as he felt no pity for the man himself, it was a pointless death. Much, frankly, as his execution would have been, if Emily hadn’t decided to leave them all alive. The Courier had hailed it her first full-fledged decision as Empress when she’d done the same after the attempt on her life, but the truth was, she had argued in favour of Brockburn and his friends as well; over a year before the remaining Regenters had attacked her and Alexi’s carriage.

“Has his family been notified?”

Daud nodded. “They have. Like as not, there’s not much keeping them in Dunwall anymore now.”

* * *

 **2** ** nd ** **Day, Month of Rain, 1845**

The anniversary of any ruler’s coronation was a more important occasion across the Empire than their birthday, but equally the coming of age of any Prince or Princess _could_ render their parents obsolete if the royal family so chose. Abdication wasn’t common, but possible. Thus, it was not unheard of for Emperors and Empresses to be quite young; but Gristol last had been ruled by a child a century and a half ago. For Emily, then, this meant not only to finally enter adulthood in the eyes of the world, but also to be considered ruler in her own right. Corvo would, from here on out, take the meetings she delegated to him, not the ones he decided to take off her hands. He had never been called ‘regent’ and never wanted to be, but even as Corvo had relied on Emily’s advisors, High Overseer Khulan and, first and foremost, Daud, he had never quite shaken the unease that accompanied knowing he could easily be accused of guiding the hand of the ruler of the Isles, for better or for worse. Emily had been part of every decision they’d made, had been the one to stand for these decisions in front of her council and her court; but many wouldn’t see it that way.

Many saw, still, an interloper from Serkonos rising far above his station without concept of the magnitude of his duties or purpose. Enough of the so-called historians — who were busy writing history before it had even unfolded entirely — had been content to suggest he hadn’t known better, hadn’t _understood_ his duties in guarding the Empress after Jessamine's death; thus still finding it convenient to blame him for her murder even if he hadn't been the one to kill her. They had confidently branded him deficient in mind and character because of his name and the complexion of his skin. Of course, those same historians had claimed that Daud, infamous assassin and murderer of the Empress, had corrupted him and conned him into working for him: another Serkonan, only this time his heritage had served to make him dangerous rather than stupid. A devious ploy of course, as the learned men of the College of History surmised that Daud was the son of a Pandyssian witch, arriving to Serkonos on a ship, the captain dead and its crew enthralled, only as a shadow in his mother’s belly. Like mother, like son, they said, and Corvo had tossed the slim volume containing rumours and sightings of the Knife of Dunwall, collected a few years after his presumed death or disappearance and sent to the Tower for inclusion in its library, into the fire before Daud could see it. Corvo did not know what the Whalers had done with the penny novel they’d found years ago, but he hoped they’d hidden it well.

In truth, Corvo had never asked to _guide_ an Empress, only to protect her — and even that, he hadn’t known he wanted, eighteen years old and cocky as anything. Emily’s mother’s ascension to the throne had tempered him, as had fatherhood. Jessamine had been the constant in his life, and with her their daughter, a bright light shining in her eyes that nothing could extinguish. Emily had been free and kind and full of joy, and Corvo ached not to have been able to give her the childhood she’d deserved: drawings and stories, climbing lessons, and hide and seek. Anything, he supposed, instead of the throne and crown.

Eight years had passed now since they’d lost Jessamine, and barely a day went by he didn’t look towards the gazebo, remembering their last peaceful moments together, overshadowed as they’d been. And then, the Heart, whispering to him the night he lost Daud to the Void. The night he lost her, too, to the cold. To forever. She’d given her blessing, freely and of generous spirit, and Corvo could only hope she’d found peace. The scarce few times he'd been to the Void since Daud's return, he hadn't had the courage to look for her; or to ask the Outsider what he knew of her soul. And would he truly know? He was no ferryman.

Today, Emily would hold court and meet with her citizens and visitors from abroad; and surely most of them would come _not only_ with petty squabbles and to curry favour, but to pay their respects, to wish the Empress well on this joyous occasion. To see if her head was held high. Corvo knew that Emily had backbone and a strong sense of what was just, and right for her people. She believed in kindness still, in seeking the betterment of the many, not the few. She would fight for her city. She already had.

But first: a challenge, and a gift.

Corvo returned to his quarters after a quick meeting with Thomas and Geoff Curnow, to find Daud standing opposite Rulfio and Rinaldo, eyeing them critically.

“I agree hiring someone from the outside would have been reckless, but are you sure a mere disguise is enough to throw her off?” Daud asked, turning slightly to look at Corvo over his shoulder as he heard him enter.

Corvo closed the door and walked over towards them, coming to stand beside Daud; just resisting the impulse to put his hand on the small of Daud’s back, knowing Daud would lean into the touch even as he sent him a surreptitious glare out of the corner of his eye. Corvo would splay his fingers over the soft material of Daud’s vest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric…

He took a deep breath, pretending to consider Daud’s question but using the moment to pull himself together. Seven years, he thought, seven years since he’d first realised his feelings, and Daud still made him want to act like a fool. He fought a smile. He’d always been a fool around Jess, too.

“The point is not to fight like Whalers-turned-guards, nor like Whalers,” Corvo reminded them once again of what Daud was sure to have told them a dozen times already. Rinaldo and Rulfio nodded. Corvo knew it was them because he and Daud had chosen them for this task, but to look at them he would have needed a moment to recognise their height and build. Rinaldo’s hair was hidden under black fabric tied around his head, and the mask Daud had chosen for him obscured the shape of his head efficiently. Both wore misshapen clothing, tied with belts and straps so as not to inhibit their movements but badly tailored nonetheless. They carried swords that would be favoured by the gangs but that neither guards nor Whalers had ever carried, not even to spar.

Still, all that work was for nothing if Emily recognised them by their fighting style and the way they moved. Daud and Corvo fought very differently, but both were undoubtedly the best combatants in the Empire — and together, they had trained the Empress. She held herself more like Corvo, held her ground like him, too, relying more on footwork than on brute strength and bulk, unlike Daud. But her sword sliced through her opponents’ weaknesses with a precision that she had learnt from Daud, from watching him and insisting on just one more round, no matter if she was already exhausted and even Daud started showing his age after hours of training. With a blade, she had become a powerful, imperfect amalgamation of her guardians.

In true hand-to-hand combat, she took after Daud because she _wanted_ to. She was nimbler and faster than both of them, which she knew to use to her advantage, but her fists packed a punch that rivalled most professional fighters even now, when she hadn’t been training for quite five years. And not only that, but she was ruthless. (Daud encouraged her in this, as he did in most things that did not involve one of the following: the Void; immeasurably angering Callista; or booby-trapping guest quarters for nobles she did not particularly like. The last was mostly a concession to Corvo’s nerves when dealing with paperwork.)

“Fighting like Void-damned mercs, then,” Rinaldo grinned. “We can do that. Seen them try their best and fail often enough.“

Corvo frowned, but Daud answered for him: “We don’t need any merc’s best. We need _your_ best. Preferably before she realises it’s you.” He paused. “Don’t go easy on her. This is a test. Remember your own.“

Corvo could imagine what kind of _tests_ Daud had put the Whalers through, on their way from novices to masters, to test their mettle and to make sure they were ready to take on contracts on their own. He had put Emily and Alexi through the paces as well, in the practice yard, with Whalers raining down on them from all sides. This time, he allowed himself a smile — and to think, that _this_ was their birthday gift for Emily. A fake assassination attempt, carried out by two of her best friends. He couldn’t quite rightly say who had put the idea forward first, him or Daud. He supposed one word had followed the other and they’d each arrived at the same conclusion. Of course Corvo had misgivings, as any father would, but this was no decision he made as Emily’s father. As her Protector, he needed to know she could hold her own — and no amount of training could come close to the real thing. They already knew Emily wasn’t one to freeze: she hadn’t frozen at fourteen and with a pistol aimed at her head, either. Still, she knew far more now than she had then, and she needed to prove she knew how to wield what she’d learnt outside of training grounds.

Another gift that had arrived the week before and that Emily had not yet seen, was just now being hauled into the throne room, having been hidden away — and cautiously examined — by Corvo and Daud until now. A new throne, commissioned as a gift to the Empress by her council, sculpted by a local artist. The first time Corvo had seen it, he’d stopped and stared. At first glance, it looked… not to put too fine a point to it, like a whale’s gaping maw. Made from steel, with an unusually curved seat cushioned with leather that looked like the rows of teeth of the beasts from below, such a throne could only belong in Dunwall.

“It would make a fine seat in Slaughterhouse Row,” Daud had commented upon seeing it — but his voice had carried no surprise. Only resignation.

“What’s wrong?” Corvo had asked, not sure if that was the right question to begin with.

Daud had not answered for a moment, his eyes still on the throne. “I’ve seen it before,” he’d said at length. “In the Void.”

“In the Void? When?”

“When I was… when I was _there_ ,” Daud had said simply. “It showed me this throne. Emily, you, the Whalers. Emily looked about the age she is now.”

“And where were you?” Corvo had barely dared to ask, knowing most of what the Void had done to Daud and being able to guess the rest.

“Not there.”

Instinctively, Corvo had leaned in to kiss Daud, softly but lingering. A promise, perhaps, or reassurance; that the day Emily first sat on that throne, and all the days that followed, Daud would never be far away. They wouldn't let him. _Corvo_ wouldn't let him.

Corvo was shaken from his thoughts by Daud asking Rulfio and Rinaldo if they were ready. Just before his meeting with Thomas and Curnow, Corvo had dispatched Galia and Misha to draw Emily towards the library and keep her there long enough to let Rinaldo and Rulfio get into position. Afterwards, Emily would proceed towards the throne room, as planned, to practise her speech one last time and speak to the guards on duty before the doors were opened and visitors admitted — guards who would be conveniently absent from their post; and no Whalers watching from the chandeliers.

The two men nodded. “Ready.” They looked to Daud, who looked to Corvo.

He nodded. “Go.”

The assassins-for-the-day made their way out through the door leading out into the entrance hall, making their way onto the roof from there. Corvo sighed, and finally gave in to his need to touch Daud, stronger now than before. Daud leaned into him, close enough to press a kiss against Corvo’s jaw.

“She’ll be fine,” Daud murmured, his voice low. “She’s her father’s daughter.“

“Mmh,” Corvo hummed, turning his head to kiss Daud properly. “She is.” By the way the corner of Daud’s mouth curled slightly against Corvo’s lips, he took his meaning.

* * *

 

Emily passed her test with flying colours, of course. By the time Corvo and Daud reached the throne room, sneaking in through the door behind the dais and keeping to the shadows, Rinaldo was pushing himself up on his elbows with a groan whilst Emily was ripping the mask off Rulfio’s head with a snarl. He smiled up at her, then winced, covering the side of his ribcage with his hand.

“Who sent—Rulfio?” she exclaimed. Daud grinned as she turned to Rinaldo, still masked, and narrowed her eyes. “Rin?” she asked suspiciously. Daud frowned, however, when he realised that Emily had blood running down her chin.

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Rinaldo removed his mask and scarf himself, grinning up at her from where he was kneeling a few feet away and sitting back on his haunches. “Sorry about the busted lip.“

“Yes, well,” Emily said, raising a hand to where a blow must have split the skin. Rinaldo tossed her the scarf and she used it to staunch the bleeding. “I’m sure Lady Helmswater will find it charming. And besides, better than a broken nose.”

“A bit of elixir will seal it right up, though,” Rulfio reassured her, pushing himself to his feet and trudging over to Rinaldo to help him up.

Emily hummed. Then, she changed tack. “I suppose I have my ill-mannered _guardians_ to thank for this,” she drawled. Still hidden, leaning against one of the pillars at the back of the hall, Daud and Corvo exchanged a glance.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, Your Majesty,“ Rinaldo tried his best to look innocent.

“Me neither, Your Highness,” Rulfio added, guileless expression twitching when Emily crossed her arms.

“Here’s what we do know, though,” Rinaldo began, affecting an air of someone trying to be _helpful_.

“Happy birthday,“ Rulfio gave up the charade and grinned.

Emily, probably quite against her will, laughed, then opened her arms. First Rulfio, then Rinaldo embraced her and lifted her off her feet like the misbehaving brothers they were.

“Happy birthday, Emily,” Rinaldo echoed, then withdrew. “And thanks for the beating.”

“Go, get yourselves cleaned up,” Emily ordered, waving them towards the door. “And take your ugly scarf with you,“ she said for parting words, throwing Rinaldo his gear.

“You wound me, Your Majesty,“ Rinaldo cried as he limped away, not too greatly exaggerating his injuries, Daud surmised from the way he held himself — Emily had given them a beating, indeed. But if she hadn’t known their true identities before unmasking them, they’d done well. _She_ had done well. Daud’s hand found Corvo’s and he entwined their fingers for a moment.

As soon as the heavy, reinforced doors closed behind the two men, Emily took a deep breath, tilting her head back and exhaling, deliberately letting the tension seep from her frame the way Corvo had showed her. Corvo had always been better at meditation — to Daud, ‘finding the centre of his thoughts’ only led to sleepless nights and too much coffee in the morning, even now. He leashed his demons, but he had never found it easy to put them to sleep.

“I know you’re there,” Emily then announced to the room at large.

Daud heard Corvo chuckle softly, then felt him tug at their joined hands. Daud withdrew, laid his hand on Corvo’s shoulder instead, nudging him to go first. Corvo tilted his head and even in the dim light, Daud could see the gentle exasperation in his eyes. He held in a sigh, then nodded.

Together, they stepped out from behind the pillar.

Emily turned when she heard them approach, crossing her arms once more.

“This is your idea of a birthday present?” she arched her brow at them.

“Did you like it?” Corvo asked, sounding smug. Daud reined in his smirk.

“Believing that I could be attacked by assassins _in my own throne room_ and past all security measures put in place, on my birthday? Yes, what more could an Empress ask for,” Emily countered sarcastically. She closed the distance, balled her fists, and punched first Corvo, then Daud, soundly in the shoulder. “Incorrigible, both of you,” she scolded. Then, she flung an arm around each of them and pulled them in against her, Daud’s shoulder knocking against Corvo’s, their hands meeting high on Emily’s back. “Thank you.”

* * *

Corvo and Daud had, of course, reviewed the list of guests and visitors long in advance; not only to make sure that everyone who had announced themselves was welcome, but also to be able to whisper into Emily’s ear the names of nobles she might not have met before — or simply forgotten the names of. It happened. Sometimes, on purpose.

He leaned down to whisper into her ear now.

“That’s Lord Connachta, from Morley, and his heir, Wyman,” Corvo murmured, watching as Connachta and Wyman approached. Wyman had distinguished themselves at the King of Morley’s court even at so young an age, and was said to have accompanied their father on most foreign diplomatic travels in the past two years. Due to continuing tension between the governments of Gristol and Morley, state visits were rare and most negotiations undertaken by nobles sent as envoys by the King. Connachta had apparently been chosen to prove his mettle, under the guise of paying a visit to the Empress on her birthday. Perhaps in a gesture of good will, both Connachta senior and junior had chosen more contemporary garb rather than traditional Morleyan robes, more in line with current Gristol fashion.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Connachta bowed as he reached them, as did Wyman, “the people of Morley would like to offer their felicitations on the occasion of your birthday.”

“Thank you, Lord Connachta, Wyman,” Emily addressed them regally. “I understand this is your first visit to Dunwall in quite some time.”

“It is, Your Majesty,” Wyman answered in their father’s stead, smiling at Emily brightly. With a deferential tilt of their head, they evidently expected further, purposefully veiled, questions as to the purpose of their stay, but no quick reply was forthcoming. Chancing a glance at Emily, Corvo found that she had let a smile, albeit tempered, slip through her imperial mask, holding Wyman’s gaze. Avoiding looking over at Wyman’s father, for fear of finding bewilderment at best and scheming at worst, Corvo simply shifted slightly, brushing Emily’s elbow with his knuckles. At this, she recovered, but Corvo was mildly surprised to find a faint blush dusting her cheeks. Four words, a pleasant voice, and a smile was what it took, then, Corvo thought, barely reining in both a smirk and a raised eyebrow. Wyman, at least, he confirmed with another covert glance, seemed impossibly charmed.

Perhaps the Honourable Wyman Connachta would be persuaded to stay in Gristol's capital a little longer.

* * *

**Month of High Cold, 1845**

As Daud stepped out onto the sun terrace and blinked to see as far as the coastline and Addermire Station, he took a deep breath. The air was still light enough to breathe this early in the morning; as what passed for winter in Serkonos was still warmer than any heat wave in Gristol. He bared his teeth — what had he been thinking, settling for that wretched rock. He did not miss the heat of Karnaca, nor the weight in the air that sat in your chest and weighed you down; unlike the bracing salt in the air in Dunwall — that tasted more like brine the closer the shores of the Wrenhaven, and in Dunwall, the river was never far away. All told, Tyvia was colder than a witch’s tit, Morley was as grey as the Void, Gristol was a slap in the face with a wet rag that fancied itself bracing, and Serkonos had never met a sweltering day it did not like. Even so, Daud would admit that Corvo had been right to, one, wrangle him back into bed — literally — the day Daud had woken with a fever and a cough bad enough to wake the entire Tower, and two, suggest he travel to Addermire to see Hypatia as soon as the worst of the sickness had come and gone.

Pneumonia, Hypatia had muttered during her first examination, not needing any apparatus to hear the rattling in Daud’s lungs. Contracted during one too many rainy and cold night out on the rooftops during the Month of Wind, it had put Daud out of commission for nearly two weeks while still in Dunwall. Two weeks to get to Karnaca, and another two being treated by Hypatia. Six weeks. Daud ground his teeth as he stepped up to the railing by the cliff edge, leaning on it with his elbows and watching the waves below. With the Mark came a certain fortitude, aided by the right bone charms; but even they still got sick as dogs if they were reckless. Now, he felt better, and itched to return to Dunwall.

At least he could make himself useful while being here — technically, he was Hypatia’s first patient. The Addermire Institute for Infectious Disease, sat on an island out in Karnaca Bay, would be officially inaugurated at the beginning of the Month of Seeds. Until then, Hypatia and her assistant Vasco still had much to do; and every day crates with equipment or supplies arrived. The Duke had happily offered all his assistance, Hypatia had told Daud; Emily’s letter of recommendation had to have done wonders. Daud, having been party to writing it, could only agree. But all elegant words meant nothing if the one you asked for help did not favour your honour or sincerity — and judging by the help he now provided, Theodanis Abele thought highly of the Kaldwins even now, no matter Emily’s youth; certainly enough to warrant the introduction.

While Hypatia had fixed him with a look and _asked_ him not to do anything too taxing, she did let him assist Vasco in setting up the labs, so Daud was satisfied in earning his keep. Vasco was an easy fellow to talk to, and as he was the only staff member already on site, he and Daud fairly had the run of the place. Even as the institute was being built, Hypatia kept working on her serums and formulae, most importantly a treatment for Black Lung disease, common among miners and their families who lived in the districts around the silver mines. But she was also working on a cure for Bloodfly Fever. The infestations Daud had seen in the past few years hadn’t been nearly as bad as some of the nests he’d encountered in his youth, but still the disease wreaked havoc on especially the poorer quarters.

Daud supposed he should move to his room and write home to Corvo and Emily that he would take the ship back to Dunwall within the week.

*

_Corvo —_

_You were right to ask me to go to Addermire (savour the feeling while you can, and then burn this Void-damned letter); and even as I did not much enjoy your insistence (though I would prefer the term ‘manhandling’) in taking care of me back in Dunwall, I appreciate the chance to learn as much about Addermire Institute as I can before its inauguration. Hypatia keeps a busy schedule, returning to the mainland often to make house calls and assist Lucia Pastor in drafting negotiations with the mine owners. (Aramis Stilton seems to be the most reasonable of the lot, and even though I have not met him yet, Hypatia speaks highly of him.)_

_Hypatia’s assistant, Vasco, tells me that she will not allow patients to be brought in to test the developing versions of her serum — instead, she often tests them on herself; and I remember your amused tales of arguments on the sanity of such a practice from the laboratory of Dunwall Tower. Still, here there are no Piero and Sokolov to stop her. I offered to try one of her concoctions myself, but she would not hear of it. Gave me more of the elixir that would restore my strength instead, and I know her stubborn head well enough to know she will not budge. Vasco told me of one batch that left her so exhilarated she did not sleep for three days. But that seems to have been the extent of any enjoyable side effects. Most, so he tells me, include rather more pain and sleepless nights, and days when she will barely answer to her own name for how distracted she is._

_I will board the ship to Dunwall in three days. I feel rested and restored, and Hypatia is satisfied with the state of my lungs. I enjoyed my stay here, even for the reasons as they were. I’d never set foot in the old solarium, and even as the private rooms up on the roof will be maintained and reserved for more prolific visitors, the institute itself and Hypatia’s practice will be open to everybody._

_Tell Emily I will be back in time for her jubilee, and tell yourself I miss you — I still haven't forgiven your stubbornness, so I surely won’t._

_I love you._

_— Daud_

* * *

**13** ** th ** **Day, Month of Ice, 1845**

The alarm went off just before dawn and, frankly, Daud would have been content to stay as he was, moulded into Corvo’s side, using the side of his chest for a pillow and listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. But then, suddenly, the bed was moving. Why was the bed moving? Ah. Corvo was rolling them over. Bastard.

“Good morning,” Corvo crowed, pressing light kisses to the sensitive skin of Daud’s neck.

Daud, still fighting the oncoming awakening, grunted.

“Good morning, love,“ Corvo deigned to make it worse, nuzzling Daud’s jaw.

Daud frowned, opening his eyes to see Corvo leaning over him, smiling like a fool. Like a besotted one, more to the point; and Daud wasn’t proud of it, but his suspicious nature heavily informed the sort of stare he was levelling at Corvo now.

“What,“ he grumbled, not unaware of but choosing to ignore, for the moment, the way Corvo’s arms tightened around his back, pulling him closer into Corvo’s chest.

“Happy birthday,” Corvo murmured, his smile never wavering.

Daud just about stopped himself from making a disgusted noise — Corvo might take it personally, and loath though Daud was to acknowledge both the passing of another year and this particular circumstance attached to it, he was equally loath to disturb the soft expression in Corvo’s eyes.

*

Emily seemed equally determined as her father to draw attention to the date not for the sake of the jubilee of her own coronation, but for her glee upon one year finding out that the day chosen for her becoming Empress was also Daud’s birthday; especially as he’d returned from Addermire just in time.

She joined him and Corvo for breakfast that morning, and for all of Daud’s reminders that she had better practise her address to the public down to the last pause and full stop, the Empress _insisted_ on grinning at him as though he’d never annoyed her with his lessons and warnings in his life. (He had, and she was better at acting than her father.) Daud thought he’d made it through breakfast scot free — there had been no gifts, no ill-conceived small speeches over raised coffee cups, and thank the Void no _flowers_ — but then Emily stood to get ready for the day and crossed to where he sat. Daud looked up at her not rightly knowing what showed on his face beyond pleading, but she smiled and then stooped down to loop her arms around his neck.

“Happy birthday, Daud,” she said quietly, her hand squeezing his shoulder; and before he could even think to pat her back in thanks she let him go and straightened up to leave. Daud didn’t say anything, examining the dregs of his coffee for a moment instead, only then raising his eyes to Corvo’s. Corvo was smiling at him softly. A little wistful, too.

*

The rest of the day passed as days filled with official appearances often did — with Daud hidden in the shadows while Corvo, Khulan, and Curnow stood by Emily’s new throne. The Whalers made up the throne room guard, their keen eyes missing nothing. Daud dreaded days filled with speeches and courtiers for the exposure that they brought; but dreaded them less for being in Dunwall himself, at least. The year before, he’d spent the day of Emily’s coronation celebration on a ship bound for Caulkenny. Even knowing Corvo by her side, Daud had not slept easy that night. It only needed one blade, Daud knew, for too often it had been his own to prove it. And sometimes, it just needed one shot. Jessamine had taught him that.

* * *

 

**_DUNWALL COURIER_ **

_14_ _th _ _Day, Month of Ice, 1845_

 _Following the jubilee of Her Majesty Emily Kaldwin’s coronation eight years ago, the Tower has asked us to publicise the following announcement. We do so here, in full and without comment, out of deference to the royal family’s privacy and past circumstances, including the events leading up to and following the death of the Empress’ mother, Jessamine Kaldwin_ _I_ _._

 **_On this day that marks the occasion of Emily Kaldwin I’s ascension to the throne of the four nations of the Isles, the following declaration has been made by the Office of the Royal Protector and Spymaster. Lord Corvo Attano, who has served the Kaldwin family loyally for now twenty-eight years, hereby acknowledges the Empress, daughter and rightful heir of Jessamine Kaldwin, as his child. The Crown acknowledges the relationship between the late Empress Jessamine and Lord Attano but declines to comment on the nature of their connection following the birth of Princess Emily. Although Lord Attano was never named Royal Consort, he played an integral role in Her Majesty’s upbringing and education; and has, since the succession, served her as guardian and advisor in all matters of state. The Empress wishes to express her gratitude, as well as publicly denounce any other false claim of Her Majesty’s heritage made over the years. The Empress and her father will continue to serve the people of Dunwall, Gristol, and the Empire, as they have for the past eight years; to seek to restore prosperity and unity to the Empire of the Isles_ ** **_and all its citizens_** ** _._ **

* * *

**Month of Timber, 1845**

Emily wandered into Corvo’s quarters and found Daud, reading on the settee by the fireplace, reports and files spread all over, including the side table and the floor. Daud didn’t look up from his work and Emily didn’t say anything, knowing he would have recognised her steps before she’d even opened the door. She crossed the room and rounded the settee, gathering up enough papers to carve out a little room for herself to sit down. Turning the files in her hand, Emily skimmed the pages. Corvo and Daud sometimes shared reports with her directly, and she received her own fair share of them from… just about everyone with access to a typewriter, but this was what one might have called grunt work, never mind that it had to be done by those who handed out the orders. Minutiae, every detail recorded by patrols, reconnaissance missions, and scouts.

“What do you look for?”

“Patterns. Or breaks in them.” He continued reading, and she knew he would unless she demanded his attention. She skimmed another field report.

“May I have a pen?”

Wordlessly, Daud handed her one.

Half an hour later, Emily had worked through a modest stack of reports, itching for the rest of them to complete the picture of which she knew she was missing pieces. Casting her eyes around, she found the stack of reports Daud had already finished with.

“Switch?” she asked, holding up her bounty. Daud glanced over, faint amusement in his gaze that she’d learnt to recognise over the years, and nodded.

So each had their task for the next hour or so, and they worked alongside each other quietly until they’d made a sizeable dent in that morning’s paperwork. _Just that morning’s_ , Emily realised.

“Were you looking for Corvo?” Daud asked, evidently deeming it time for a break, reaching for the cup of coffee previously buried amidst the files, and raised it, only just in time remembering that it would have gone cold in the meantime. Emily watched as he scowled into the cup, and smiled.

“Either of you, really,“ she told him, leaning back against the cushions.

“You could have said,” Daud cut her another glance as he set the coffee back down. She shrugged.

“Time was I used to draw or read pirate stories while you and Corvo worked on these,” she said. “At least now I can be of help.”

“Paperwork can wait if you have need of counsel, even if it's only mine I have to offer,” Daud told her, brow raised, turning so he might sit facing her. “What is it?”

Emily hesitated, as she was not usually in the habit of discussing any… dalliances she might contemplate, neither with Corvo nor with Daud. She was certain enough that they knew and would not interfere unless they thought her to be in danger; and as such she was satisfied. But _this_ far exceeded what she would call a dalliance, much as all she had shared with the one her thoughts dwelled on had been a dance, or three, and a glass of wine the day of her coronation jubilee. (Two, topped up while Corvo wasn’t looking.)

“I’m sure Corvo has told you… Wyman is returning from Morley in a few weeks,” she eventually decided just to get it over with.

“I know,” Daud said plainly — too plain. Emily tilted her head and met his gaze. Oh, she fervently wished Callista had yet returned from her voyage across the Ocean, if just to be the one to tease Emily for her nerves.

“Would it be too… forward, do you think, to invite them for tea a few days past their arrival?” Emily grudgingly posed her question. Of course, it was more than a question — it was a declaration of intent, as anything in this house was, a way of doing nothing short of alerting the two men single most responsible for her safety and welfare that the Empress of the Isles… had a Void-damned crush. Protocol, Emily reminded herself, dictated that anyone seriously considered for a position at the Empress’ side, in whatever capacity that may be, be vetted and investigated by the office of the Royal Spymaster. By her own father. Emily should have passed a law against that combination of titles directly on her eighteenth birthday.

“You’re asking me for advice on protocol?” Daud returned with a question of his own, amusement now unerringly tugging at his scarred cheek.

“Better you than Lord Pendrick, he’d go on for at least an hour,” Emily quipped as he stood to fetch himself a fresh cup of coffee from the pot on Corvo’s desk.

“Better me than Lord Pendrick, imagine my relief,” Daud lobbed back at her. “And I suppose you’ll want me to warn Wyman of the consequences if they leave you jilted, too?”

“Father,” Emily scolded him before she could stop herself. Daud halted in his movements just long enough for her to notice, and then resumed his preparations.

“You already have one, and he’s doing a better job of it than I,” he rumbled. Safe in the knowledge that not even the former Knife of Dunwall could see out of the back of his head, Emily rolled her eyes. She may have never called him by anything but his name, but it would have to be a near miracle she had never slipped up before. Daud cleared his throat, then, picking up his coffee. “I certainly wouldn’t have known how,” he said quietly.

Emily smiled wistfully while he couldn’t see. “It’s been five years since you returned,” she told him softly. He evaded her gaze as he turned and came walking back towards the settee. “You helped raise me, Daud, and I’m Empress today because of you.” At this, he raised his eyes to meet hers. “I know it’s never talked about, but it’s the truth.”

Another truth that dared not speak its name was how much she knew Daud and Corvo meant to each other; beyond all silly notions of courtly romance. In a sense, Emily had always known, even from the first. What Emily had learnt from her mother and from Corvo was that love lay in how they spoke to one another, treated one another, cared for one another; not in what they did. Her parents had never been — could never afford to be — demonstrative, not even in front of her. They’d explained to her that Corvo was her father but that no-one could know, but not once had she believed it was because they did not know to love each other.

And then her mother had died and Daud had kept them safe. Daud had fought the conspiracy at Corvo’s side, had fought a witch and won — had gone to the Void to do it. And Emily had known, then, too; but not because they would risk their lives. It had been for how they looked at one another when no-one else should have seen. Upon Daud’s return from the Void, he had not moved into a separate room, sharing Corvo’s quarters instead; no explanation had been offered and Emily had demanded none even after she'd grown out of her childish naiveté. It had simply been, for Corvo to watch over Daud while he was sick and then to keep him close whenever he returned to Dunwall. It needed no announcements, no declarations to be made. Emily did not question Corvo’s love for her mother, nor Daud’s devotion to her memory; and what for? They were happy as they were, and Empress Jessamine would never be forgotten as long as either of them drew breath.

One day when she’d been fifteen, Emily, sitting down between them on the settee, had taken Corvo’s right hand from where it had been resting on his knee, then Daud’s left from the backrest, and clasped them both together between hers.

"You could have just told me, you know," she’d said lightly, looking down at their joined hands. "I’m not a child."

"Emily, I—we," Corvo had begun, but she’d shaken her head, silencing him.

"I asked him if he loved you once,” she’d told him. Beside her, Daud had gone very still.

"When?"

“A long time ago. When the Overseers from Tyvia surprised you and Daud waited with me."

"And what did he say?" Corvo had seemed compelled to ask despite himself, seeking Daud’s gaze behind her.

With a smile, Emily had shaken her head. "Nothing. We were interrupted, and I didn’t dare ask again. But that’s what I mean: you don’t have to hide it anymore,” she’d said, indicating Daud with a tilt of her head so confident as if he’d handed his confession to her in writing. “Not from me."

Corvo had hugged her then, and Daud had squeezed her hand before withdrawing. Later, leaving to go to bed, Emily had turned in the doorway to see Corvo leaning over to kiss Daud on the cheek, Daud’s expression one of pained relief. They’d never spoken a word of it again. They’d never needed to.

Across from her, Daud now smirked. “And you should certainly never talk about it with Lord Pendrick, lest you give the man a heart attack.”

Emily allowed him the deflection, and grinned. “Now you’re just giving me ideas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Corvo: being pestered by Emily's council to take a pretty wife. Daud, emerging from behind a curtain: But I'm his pretty wife.  
> b) Corvo: Why are you so angry?? Daud: Because you're so pretty!!! *fumey squiggles*  
> c) 'Why then the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.' belongs to Will Shakespeare, and 'take what's yours, violently, with a sword,' belongs to punch, who had the good sense to look up what the fuck 'the world is your oyster' even MEANS.  
> d) cross-posted on tumblr was this lil snippet, months ago:  
> https://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/168975531980/the-alarm-went-off-just-before-dawn-and-frankly  
> e) remember how I said Emily/Alexi wasn't gonna be a thing? I lied. Guess I gotta update the tags.  
> f) spoiler: Emily's as useless as her father(s) when it comes to putting someone else's mission over her own feelings  
> g) spoiler-spoiler: Alexi's *mission* is to keep Emily safe, no matter the cost


	4. Chapter Three — The wounded forms appear, the loss, the full extent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tenth anniversary of Empress Jessamine's death. 18th Day, Month of Earth, 1847.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried my way through writing this, and now I'm bequeathing it to you.
> 
> I made a separate playlist for this chapter because I'm an ass: [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/ama_23/playlist/24HpkCTkKwdOfVDR7FuxE8?si=_ZgNy2nhQs2ZtOHAFii0Cg%20) | [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2fCcggNkTs&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zMUARodO49yPbfZwc18IiYL) (set to public now lol sorry).
> 
> Main chapter song: [You, by Keaton Henson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2fCcggNkTs&index=59&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN&t=0s).
> 
> On a happier note: we're half-way through!! Three more chapters to go, which include such lovely adventures as The Wyrmwood Deceit, The Corroded Man, and What The Fuck Do We Do Now?
> 
> xoxo

> **_DUNWALL COURIER_ **
> 
> _4rd Day, Month of Earth 1847_
> 
> **_Dunwall Prepares for the Memorial of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin_ **
> 
> _Only a fortnight_ _before_ _the memorial that is to be held at Dunwall Tower, the citizens of Dunwall — and, indeed, Gristol — prepare to mourn the loss of our fair Empress Jessamine. It has been ten years since she was slain at the hands of a conspiracy running deep within the noble circles of the capital. After months of turmoil, order was restored when the rightful heir to the throne, Empress Jessamine’s daughter Emily, was returned to the Tower thanks to the tireless work of her Royal Protector and father, Corvo Attano. The Royal Protector acknowledged Empress Emily as his child only two years ago; as such this is the first time he and the Empress will both publicly observe the anniversary of Jessamine Kaldwin’s death as members of the royal family, joined in mourning._
> 
> _The memorial, as in years before, will be held in the throne room at Dunwall Tower, inviting citizens_ _of_ _Dunwall and the Isles to pay their respects to our fallen Empress and, in kind, her daughter. The Empress is expected to give a short speech both addressing those attending and the city, over the speaker system. The Empress and the Royal Protector will participate in the memorial for most of the day, joined by High Overseer Yul Khulan and Captain of the Watch Geoff Curnow as well as members of the royal council. The Honourable Wyman Connachta has been reported to attend Dunwall for the occasion, increasing speculation as to the likelihood of the Empress officially taking a consort. These reports have not been confirmed by the palace._
> 
> **_Anton Sokolov Retires from the Academy of Natural Philosophy_ **
> 
> _The Academy of Natural Philosophy has announced that Anton Sokolov, hailed as the genius of our age, has resigned his post as Director, effective immediately. The scientist and inventor, who came to Dunwall from his native Tyvia forty years ago, has been singlehandedly responsible for numerous advancements in technology that have ensured our nation and the Empire’s great strides in industry and engineering. Together with his colleague_ _s_ _Piero Joplin and_ _Doctor_ _Alexandria Hypatia, Sokolov gave Gristol the desperately needed cure for the Rat Plague_ _, the disease that nearly brought Dunwall to its knees_ _twenty years ago._
> 
> _In a short statement sent out by the Academy, Sokolov voices his intention to retreat from public life and any further political matters. His position as Royal Physician to the Empress will be taken over by his protégé_ _,_ _Doctor_ _Sandi Toksvig._

* * *

 

Corvo set down the previous day’s newspaper that he was only now getting around to reading. He smiled, but it was without joy. For most of his life, he had been forced to hide the most important relationships in his life even from those closest to him. No-one could know he and Jessamine loved each other, no-one could know Emily was his daughter. No-one could know he mourned the Empress not only as her protector but as her lover; that he fought for her daughter because she was his own flesh and blood. No-one could know what he’d loved and lost. No-one would understand.

For over a decade, people had tried to pry into his and Jessamine’s relationship, declaring it ‘the worst-kept secret in all of Dunwall.’ And even though Corvo had, in the meantime, acknowledged Emily as his daughter, thus publicising the affair, his time keeping secrets was not yet over. Another decade hence, Daud was sequestered away at the Tower whenever he was in Dunwall, sneaking in and out, avoiding patrols. Without him, Corvo would have been lost; and yet the love he felt for him was never allowed to make it past the door to their quarters save for being carried in his heart. Hidden in the shadows, they’d made their bed. They paid the price, and they did so willingly. For Emily’s safety, for their own. No-one could know that Daud was the man he loved, that he’d gone to the Void to have him back, that Daud had helped him raise their Empress. Corvo declined to think of the Empire as the greater good, as any such justification only ever ended with someone taking on a burden they had never asked for.

And now, the dogs were chasing Emily and Wyman, begging for scraps of any confirmation of their relationship. With another smile, and true this time, Corvo remembered when Daud had grinned at him one night, and reported that Emily had asked for _advice_ regarding _protocol_. But even so, neither of them could — or would — control what concessions Emily was prepared to make, protocol or otherwise. Corvo had liked Wyman from the beginning, and Daud had to have deemed them suitable early on — if not, Wyman would not have left his and Daud’s quarters slightly wide-eyed one afternoon a few months ago. Corvo had passed them, curious, and entered his chambers to find Daud sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, looking smug.

Daud had looked decidedly less smug, however, when not even an hour later Emily had marched herself into their quarters, and given Daud a good hiding for questioning Wyman’s intentions towards Emily and implicitly threatening them should they ever hurt her. Then, she’d rounded on Corvo and demanded to know if he’d put Daud up to it — at least that, Corvo could deny, albeit not his amusement at the situation in general.

Emily had then informed them that, should they endeavour to threaten _everyone_ close to her heart, they’d better read Alexi a lecture or two as well. Corvo, seeing his hunch thus confirmed, had merely smiled. Daud had choked on his coffee, which, in Emily’s generous estimation, served him right.

But all moments of levity aside, Emily too wore a mask; so wholly unlike the one Corvo donned at night, but infinitely more insidious, for it was one of her own making. She’d had to forge it herself, in endless council sessions as a child, being patronised and talked down to by the same people who had sat and watched as her mother struggled to hold together a crumbling city. Corvo knew the fight it had taken, and yet he could not imagine what it must have cost Emily to remain as she was: kind, and firm in her conviction of what was just. Behind closed doors, her teenage years had not always been easy, but surprisingly often it had simply taken Daud gruffly asking what in the Void was wrong to at least get her talking on particularly bad days. Corvo remembered, his throat seizing, Jessamine’s final letter, writing that Emily was more difficult to manage when he was away. He knew a little what it felt like, now, to be the parent left behind. Daud had remained at the Tower in his stead a few times, when Corvo had had no recourse but to go travelling himself; to speak to informants or to follow up a lead. He had made similar remarks upon Corvo’s return then, too.

The anniversary was never easy, it would never be. Too often Corvo had let his thoughts drift into what-ifs. What if Daud had been closer to Jessamine that day, what if the Overseers hadn’t been there. What if Corvo hadn’t failed. The outcome never changed. It had been a lucky shot, but it only ever took one.

Ten years. Corvo looked over at Daud still sleeping next to him, curled up against his side, his hand resting on Corvo’s thigh on top of the sheets. Trusting Daud had been a lucky shot, too. One he could never regret.

* * *

 

Daud had never known being part of someone else’s world — didn’t know how, or what was expected of him. He led the Whalers, he was their boss, their teacher at a stretch; and they killed for coin, not for him. Not for themselves, if they could help it, although there were plenty of demons to imagine in the places of those they killed. These days, there was a man who looked to him for all the things Daud had never known how to give; and there’d been so many. Love, out of all of them, was what Corvo wanted, and Daud gave him all he had; had always done even before he’d known to put the word to the writhing in his chest. Still, there were things he could not know. He knew guilt for what he’d done, knew the shame settled deep into the marrow of his bones.

He didn’t know the half of grief.

So when Corvo went to the gazebo, Daud let him go alone. He waited up for him, as Corvo usually sought out Jessamine’s memory under the cover of darkness and away from prying eyes. The guards all knew to grant him peace when they saw him there. When Corvo returned, he crawled into bed beside Daud, the cold still in his hair and on his skin, and tucked himself into Daud’s chest. Daud stroked his hair, then, or his back, kept his words to himself and waited.

“It never gets easier,” Corvo murmured after a while, his forehead against Daud’s collarbone. “Every year, I…” He broke off, the words he was holding in straining against Daud’s hand on his back.

“Tell me if you want me to stay,” Daud said plainly, without accusation or bitterness. It was what it was.

Corvo stilled in his hold. “Why would I not?”

There were too many reasons why, and Daud did not voice them for fear of Corvo seeing the sense in them. Of coming to his senses, after all these years. This, he supposed, was just more of the guilt he knew, for doing what assassins shouldn’t, and then fucking it all up.

“I need you,” Corvo whispered when he didn’t speak, and Daud closed his eyes against the hurt lurking behind those words. As if Daud would ever deny him, now. He held him tighter.

“Then I’ll stay.“

Corvo settled in his arms, pressed a kiss to his chest.

“If… if you need some time away after this—”

“I won’t,” Daud interrupted, refusing to hear it.

Corvo sighed. “I feel all I do is take from you, like this.”

Daud brushed his lips against Corvo’s temple. He was tired, so tired, of holding in the words he dared not say, even now. So he let them go.

“You already have everything I am. When you take away the Mark and the blood and the rage, whatever’s left of me—”

“Daud—”

“Whatever’s left of me,“ Daud insisted softly, “is yours.”

“Daud,” Corvo’s voice broke on his name. He withdrew, just enough to return Daud’s gaze.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Daud murmured. “It’s just the truth, and I’ve kept it from you long enough.“

“I love you,” Corvo whispered, and then there were tears in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, until they were gone.

Daud kissed him then, softly, to say without words what his heart had promised long ago.

* * *

 

Daud had never been unaware of the wrong he’d done or the pain he’d caused, or the chaos he’d helped feed and create. Void, he’d always known. Only there’d been years he hadn’t _cared_. Then, there’d been years he’d tried to forget. Ultimately, and this had been after the Outsider had discarded him seemingly for good, Daud had always gone without thinking about it just long enough to be able to go on.

He’d had bad dreams. They all had. But Daud had known to feel them coming. He’d rarely woken screaming after the first few times.

He didn’t deserve being cured of his past, but some of these days Daud struggled to remember why, then, he’d left the Void. Punishment; to see the world for what he’d made it. Feeling good, feeling _better_ , for trying to make it safer for those that still lived within it was an entirely unwanted side effect. And so the wheels in his head kept on turning. Sleeping next to Corvo — wrapped up in him, _safe_ — was another thing he didn’t deserve; but he was bonded to him, now, and too selfish to give that up. Still some nights he woke up bathed in cold sweat and his mouth open on a long-forgotten name.

This was one such night.

“Daud,” Corvo’s voice, heavy with sleep and worry, calling for him, drawing him out of the dark. “Daud, it’s me. You’re safe, you can wake up.”

Daud was torn from the dream and plunged into the waking world with nary a warning; and he supposed it was lucky it hadn’t been the Void, if only for the lingering ache in his bones it still caused; even though neither he nor Corvo had been back there in years. The shrines had gone cold long ago, and the Outsider had lost interest in them — perhaps, for good. He opened his eyes, finding Corvo’s face, only dimly illuminated by the dormant fire in the grate. Gentle hands settled on his chest and arm, not to hold him down but to remind him. Remind him that he was not alone.

“Daud?” Corvo asked, searching.

Carefully, Daud raised his hands, wrapping his fingers around Corvo’s wrists, drawing his hands away. Corvo moved back immediately, no hurt in his eyes, no reproach, and Daud sat up, drawing his legs up and over the edge of the mattress. With his back to Corvo, he closed his eyes. Corvo did not speak, and all Daud heard was the rustling over the covers and the pillows as Corvo settled against the headboard.

_Hands, grasping, gripping, hurting him, nails biting into his skin and drawing blood. His body aching, every muscle feeling as though it was on fire, straining against the weight. His own voice, hoarse from screaming._

This was no elaborate dream of the Void, no story filled with magic and ill-gotten power. It was the story of how he’d received his scar. Thirty years on, he might finally get to tell it.

He let out a deep breath. Behind him, Corvo waited.

“I was travelling,” Daud began. “To find the black-eyed bastard’s shrines. I’d… seen him, in my dreams. Spoken to him. He’d offered me things, things I wasn’t sure I wanted. You might call it courtship, only there was no dowry to chase. Only blood, and secrets.

“There’ve always been cults worshipping the Outsider, or the gods before him. He told me that when I was in the Void. That there were others. I was in Morley, snooping around, and happened upon a cult that, for once, didn’t want to me to carve up a bloodox and eat it while it was still breathing; but wanted me to do something I could do. Fight.”

Daud paused, collecting his thoughts. These memories were so old, and usually now seemed distant and far away. Now, they were pushing everything else aside.

“In a way, it was blood sacrifice. The pit fights would go on half the night, and whoever was still standing at the end of it was deemed worthy of access to the shrine. Cults never make any _sense_. Then you’d be locked in there, with nothing but a rune for company, waiting for him to show his face. Of course, he never did, not to anyone. Anyone but me.

“They must have had guards stationed outside, must have been spying and seen me go into a trance. I didn’t even feel the pain until the Outsider let me go — he knew, of course, sent me off with some quip about hurt waiting for me. When I woke up, they were on me. Five of them, holding me down. I must have started thrashing even while still in the Void, and when I came to, I nearly managed throwing them off me. But they had too good a grip, and then a sixth stepped out of the shadows — the last one I’d beaten that night. He had a knife. He wanted to carve me up, carve the secrets out of me. Punish me for succeeding where he’d failed.”

Daud took another deep breath.

“A few of that scars on me you know are from that night. When I wouldn’t talk and the dawn approached, they grew nervous — they were mad, I grant you, but they obeyed their own rules. With the dawn, the fight was over. I’d screamed myself hoarse by then, growing tired of fighting the war dogs sitting on my chest. I knew I only had to hold out a few more minutes.

“So they tried to take my eye.”

He felt Corvo’s hand hovering above his shoulder. Daud nodded. Corvo’s touch was light, but grounding.

“They wanted to make it slow, held my head, started carving just above my eyebrow. I held still for as long as I could, then tore my head to the side at the last possible second. The knife cut down my cheek and my neck, but just missed the vein. They were startled enough for me to kick at least two of them loose; and we were gearing up for a fight when the door opened and one of the cult’s servants burst in, declaring the night had passed. I might not have survived otherwise.”

“Did you get away?” Corvo asked quietly.

“No. I hadn’t built up any resistance to toxins yet. They drugged me, and kept me there. To fight, and to show them how to summon the Outsider. Every night, I fought for my life, for weeks.”

“Did he come?”

“No. Perhaps that was the one time he showed me kindness. He never appeared to me at that shrine again. After a while, they finally grew bored with me, and turned me out. The wound had become infected, so they left me to die out in the woods. I treated my face with the herbs I could find and then dragged myself back to the nearest village for shelter.“ Daud sighed. “That’s it. That’s the story.”

“And the Outsider?“

“He marked me three months later.”

“Because you proved your worth?”

“Because he was bored.“ Daud remembered something else the Outsider had told him in the Void: four thousand years. Of course he’d been bored.

“But you chose it?”

“Same as you did. Same as Granny Rags, same as Delilah. We all choose, no matter that we might not like what comes afterwards. No matter that it always comes back to haunt us.“

“Did you love him, once?” A simple question. No simple answers.

“Perhaps.”

Daud moved to lie down again, and felt Corvo’s hand drifting from his shoulder. Daud rolled onto his side, facing him. Corvo scooted down on the bed, mirroring him, capturing Daud’s hand in his between them.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“It hardly deserves thanks,” Daud murmured, avoiding Corvo’s gaze for a moment; until Corvo leaned forward to press a tender kiss to his carved cheek.

“It does to me,” Corvo whispered, withdrawing just enough to seek Daud’s eyes, one of them he’d barely kept. “Jessamine always said you were handsome,” he continued, and Daud’s stomach kicked at the quiet words. “I thought so, too. And you are.”

Daud burrowed closer against Corvo, who received him with an embrace and another kiss.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Corvo asked.

Daud nodded against his neck.

“Alright.”

Daud closed his eyes, but he knew sleep would not come to him soon. He listened, instead, as Corvo’s breathing evened out, felt the light caresses of his fingers slow where they traced across Daud’s back. Careful not to wake him, Daud brushed his lips against Corvo’s throat.

He’d earned that scar for being _favoured_ by the Outsider — equally, he’d earned it by getting in over his head. Goading fighters two times his size into a rage, mocking them in the ring. In short, Daud had been an ass; and it’d come to bite him that night, and since. The scar remained a reminder not to be an idiot, as much as of the time before he’d had his powers. He had scars, plenty of them, but no-one could have done to him what those bastards had once Daud had received his powers.

Daud did not think much about his scars — they were what they were.

He had never been a man to be vain. As a young man, he’d been _aware_ of his looks, more through the appreciative glances thrown his way by others than his own appraisal. And he’d used them once or twice, to charm his way in or out of places that would have chewed him up and spat him back out otherwise. Might have even gotten good at it, if he hadn’t gotten better with the sword first. When he made something of himself, put on the blue coat and stood tall, people started paying attention, and the scar, ugly as it had been then, might have even helped with that. But then he became an assassin and paid them no more mind — instead, he twisted and turned in the Outsider’s grasp and _looks_ became irrelevant — they did not make him a better killer; and people tended to remember a handsome face — or, indeed, a terrifying one. So he’d stopped thinking about it.

Even when Corvo first took him to bed, it did not raise any thoughts of his own appeal. He told himself it didn’t matter that it was him Corvo sought his release with. He told himself that it was who and what he was that made him ugly; that Corvo sought a warm body, not a face to fall in love with. It hadn’t even occurred to him to compare himself to the handsome Royal Protector. Besides, the scar had long ceased to matter by the time he’d become the kind of monster he was.

Who he was and what he’d done had been all the ugliness he’d needed to keep everyone away; his demeanour and cold stare had done the rest. Of course there had been ill-conceived advances whenever he’d gone anywhere where there might be… company expected. Or one of the new girls at the Golden Cat, being tugged back by one of the others, whispering, ‘It’s no use, he doesn’t play,’ while he talked to Madame Prudence about an esteemed guest or other. Or about replacing the steam valve (again).

For decades, Daud had been untouchable, in more senses of the word than the obvious. No-one had come near enough, apart from Billie and Thomas, on a handful occasions. And then, two people with the same eyes and the same stubborn head and heart had set out to change that. Emily, Daud loved as though she were his own child, and Corvo… there was barely breath left in the world, nor words, to describe what Daud held in his heart when he looked at him. Corvo — ‘Attano,’ as Daud had called him for so long before giving up, giving in to the lessening distance between them — had chipped away at Daud’s defences, day by day, getting it into his head to be his ally and his friend; and Daud had been too damned smitten by the time he’d realised how close Corvo had come to push him away.

Out of loneliness — out of necessity, Daud had starved himself of the simple trappings of friendship for most of his life, and it had only needed one handsome, honourable man to take that away from him; to give him more than he’d ever known. Corvo’s intimacy had never felt empty, making Daud work that much harder to believe that he might be able to walk away from whatever it was they had found in each other; even though he’d known it could never be. Even when Corvo had held him, traced his skin with his mouth, found release in his arms, Daud’s name on his lips. Even when Corvo’d woken in his arms and kissed his nose. Smiled at him and had yet no wish to let him go. ‘He never said,’ Daud had justified it all, and then he’d gone to the Void safe in the knowledge that Corvo would never know the truth: that Daud would never learn not to feel his chest constrict when he imagined Corvo’s face. That he would have done anything for him, if he’d only asked.

But Corvo had never given up.

And now, Corvo asked to love him every day, asked with his eyes and his smile and his kisses and embraces, asked with reverent hands when their hearts stuttered in time with their bodies. Now, Daud knew nowhere he felt so safe and comfortable as in Corvo’s arms.

Now, he was allowed to love him.

Slowly, Daud drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 

The morning of the memorial, Emily woke early and with a heavy heart, but safely tucked into Wyman’s arms. They had spent the night hidden away in the safe room, even if Wyman’s presence, and importance, in her life were no secret within the Tower. Not quite without, either, truly, she supposed, with her council pressing her into making a decision, soon.

They hounded Corvo, too, and it pained Emily to watch her father spend all his life having to conceal who he loved, hiding his feelings for Daud away as he’d done for her mother; even as she knew Corvo and Daud took the council’s demands to find a nice noblewoman his age to marry and give himself some sort of legitimacy to counter the rumours with amusement and mockery. They were happy, even with all the secrecy and subterfuge. They were content not being able to tell the world — they’d told her, one day, that for all intents and purposes they’d been married since the day Corvo had given Daud the signet ring intended for him from the first. The Whalers all knew, had known probably since the Hound Pits pub. Geoff Curnow knew, and teased them, said “your man” when speaking to Corvo about Daud — Corvo’s _agent_ — in official meetings or outside of them; Thomas nudging him whenever he did but not keeping from smiling, either. Callista knew, of course, and had returned from her pirate adventure, as Emily still stubbornly called it, with matching gifts for them both — little whale figurines she’d carved herself; one of the sailors had taught her how. They sat on Corvo’s desk, together; a gift as much as a token of gratitude for protecting Emily in her absence and before.

(Once, Emily had caught Curnow and Thomas saying their goodbyes before Curnow was due to leave on Watch business for a few days. Standing in the otherwise deserted corridor, they’d embraced and kissed with a tenderness that to see had made Emily’s heart ache. Curnow had then cupped Thomas’s cheeks with his hands, leaning down to rest his forehead against his, and murmured something Emily had not been able to hear. She’d snuck away before they might notice her. It had taken them years, too, she knew. “Almost as bad as your father and the old man,” Galia had told her once, while off-duty and keeping Emily company in the gardens until Wyman arrived. “I can still hear Thomas going on, ‘there are good reasons why we can’t.’ Yes, I told him, until one of ‘em’s gonna be that either of you are dead, and then you’ll have nothing but your memories.” Emily had thought of Alexi, then, and looked away, out over the Wrenhaven, before she might give herself away as well.)

The world — Court, Dunwall, Gristol — paled in comparison to a family that loved each other, Emily had found. And a family they had become, down to every last Whaler that had stayed. Back at the Hound Pits, it had not taken Emily long to see them all as her new brothers and sisters, seeing how young many of them were; and even the masters, like Rulfio and Rinaldo, had soon treated her as one of their own. Billie, and a few of the ones who’d left after the disaster at Brigmore, had been the only ones who’d kept themselves apart, and Emily had never begrudged them this. And then, Billie had betrayed them all; but still Emily had missed her. Corvo had explained why as best he could then, and Emily had learnt the full story in the meantime, through careful needling and, one evening, bluntly asking Daud if he knew where Billie was now. He didn’t, and seemed reluctant to find out.

“Truth be told,” he’d said, “I’ve forgiven her long ago. And maybe she’s forgiven me.”

So what did it matter if she took a consort, Emily wondered as she laid a gentle kiss against Wyman’s temple. The council and her court had accepted Wyman, eventually, gotten past their reservations against them for being from Morley and stealing from Emily’s wardrobe every now and again — for all that women in Dunwall wore suits, the cut was still different, and the difference noticeable. The council had suggested Wyman keep to a… simpler dress code for official occasions; and although they did tend to dress more in keeping with Dunwall’s current men’s fashion when appearing at Court at Emily’s side, Emily could not have cared less whether it was in Wyman’s own coat or hers. She loved them, no matter what they chose to be present themselves to be any given day. They were kind and considerate, but adventurous, too; a fact that had nearly gotten them into trouble more than once. Emily grinned, thinking of the time she’d had to take a meeting with one of the Tower Watch captains, Ramsey, while wearing no trousers underneath her desk, Wyman hidden away in the private quarters.

Coincidentally, her courtiers might perhaps accept Wyman more easily if they had any inkling of the other most cherished one in Emily’s life — Alexi, who had confessed a daring crush on them both nigh on six months ago. Emily had harboured feelings for her childhood friend for years, but never acted upon them out of fear for their friendship if she mucked it up, and for the dedication Alexi showed to becoming part of the City Watch. Wyman knew of Emily’s lingering affections, and had admitted their own infatuation not long after. So Alexi had caught them both — and had no idea. Nor could they have known that Alexi’s feelings and wishes had not changed, but simply found their equal in Wyman.

Alexi had been happy for Emily when she’d met Wyman, had encouraged their courtship and never said a Void-damned word, and when she’d finally brought her regard before them with pained admiration in her eyes, it had taken Emily a long moment to realise just _why_ Alexi’s sole object had been to rise through the ranks of the Watch ever since the Regenters’ attack: to be close to her friend, her Empress, to protect her as best as she was able, no matter the cost to herself.

Alexi had made it plain she did not expect a thing, only wanted them to know, to relieve herself of the burden ere it drown her heart, and was ready to be dismissed from the Tower guard if it would put their minds at ease. Wyman and Emily had exchanged a long look, and Emily had found in Wyman’s gaze the answer to her own. It had been Wyman, then, who’d moved to sit next to Alexi, to take her hands in theirs, to tug her closer — to kiss her; and Emily had followed, scarcely believing she should be so lucky.

In the end, Emily had promoted Sergeant Mayhew to _Lieutenant_ of the Tower Guard just past the last Fugue, and had not, in fact, given a damn about the rules or Captain Ramsey’s disgruntled face.

“You’re thinking _very_ loudly,” Wyman mumbled sleepily just then, curling against her.

“Sorry, love,” Emily said and soothed a hand down Wyman’s back. “It’s still early, go back to sleep.”

Wyman hummed, and brushed their lips against her temple, then settled down again. With just the two of them, the bed almost felt too big — Alexi would not return before dawn. Emily and Wyman’s better third or not, the Lieutenant had to take the night shift if she wanted the respect of her officers and guards.

Emily tried to pick up the thread of her thoughts again from before they’d been scattered, and found herself with the same dilemma as for the past few months. She loved Wyman and Alexi, and would not be deterred from spending the rest of her life at their side, if they would have her; even if it had to be in secret. Only, something within her was itching to defy the rules of Court — partly out of rebellious principle, partly because at this point it was practically family tradition. Emily could not give both of them the title of royal consort, but equally she would never let herself be forced to choose between them. In truth, Wyman would be the logical choice for the title, as they were of noble birth. Emily hated making the _logical choice_.

Her mother, she thought, could never tell the truth. Neither could her fathers; and neither could the three of them. Emily would wear their rings, and wear them proudly, but she would not give _them_ _, the Court, the public, the reporters,_ the satisfaction of having bullied her into choosing one of them. She would let it be known that she would not take a consort until everyone who wishes to express their love and union with someone else feels safe to do so. And she could not, Emily choked back a sobbing breath, do what her mother couldn’t, not while she still had to hide one of the ones she loved away, not while her father was still forbidden from stepping out into the light at the side of the man he loves, the man who’d saved her. He’d gone to the Void for them and he would have given her back her mother if he could, in exchange for his own life. She died making a secret of the one person in the world who brought peace to her heart. She have to keep secrets, too. But she would will the world to change.

Her mother had fought not to have to name Emily’s father; she had ruled the Isles and never given in to demands of convention to marry someone suitable, someone she did not love, to adopt the heir to the throne. Emily vowed never to let herself be swayed from her love for Alexi and Wyman.

So she would find a way.

* * *

 

> **_Blood of the Abele House_ **
> 
> **_Chapter Four, Introduction_ **
> 
> _This chapter will focus on Edithia Abele, steward of Cullero! With sword in hand, she swept the marshes of raiders, sacrificing her life for Serkonos. We will provide newly uncovered insights into the exploits of Rabinos Abele, who built the ornate wooden bridges of Saggunto._
> 
> _Follow along as we map out the expansions occurring under the Abeles, through which trade routes to the other Isles were established, bringing riches to the nation-state. Even as waves of settlers continued to join Serkonos from Morley, the Abeles balanced growth against Serkonan culture._
> 
> _In later chapters, we will detail the times of Theodanis Abele, true son of Serkonos. Brave and benevolent, he united the East and West as no other before him. Even the rowdy people of Bastillian swore loyalty to him. One Isle, one Serkonos, united under House Abele!_

Daud sighed as he laid down the book. Soon, there would need to be an addendum written into new editions of this volume — after the death of Duke Theodanis and the making of his son, Duke Luca Abele. Old Duke Theodanis’ health had been failing for some time, but he had held onto the throne for as long as he could, to prepare his son for the difficult task ahead of him. Or so the official version. Daud rather suspected the old man hadn’t wanted to hand over the keys to the palace to a man as reckless and incompetent as Luca, even if he was his son.

Knowing a Princess, now an Empress, like Emily threw into sharp relief just how unlucky parents could be with their heirs; and that the line of succession should not be decided by blood alone.

Truth be told, Theodanis’ death made Daud thoughts turn inward rather than worry about the future of Serkonos first. He’d gotten to thinking about how Corvo had come to Dunwall, once again. Daud could never quite comprehend that someone had the power to make a gift of a person. And Daud had been living under the same roof as an Empress and her royal entourage, he was in love with her Royal Protector, her _father_ , and he loved her dearly, but he could not forget that she… possessed that same power. To make gifts of people, to displace those under her command. And he knew she would never abuse that power, but it still perturbed him to suddenly have become a part of such a life and situation. He was practically closer to true power than most anyone in the Isles; after living outside of society for decades — living as its shadow, its bloodthirsty ghost. It was surreal.

Emily would never ask or demand of him to do something impossible — but he was also well aware he’d jump in front of a train, bullet, or charging bloodox for her. He worked for the Crown for her, but… not to sustain the monarchy or to uphold the industrialist structures as they were; merely to make sure the whole thing didn’t collapse and send everything howling into the Void at the expense of thousands of innocents. Emily wanted the best for everyone and curbed exploitation where she could, and in truth Daud had only realised how hard Jessamine had worked to hold everything together after her death. She’d never looked down on those she’d ruled, had never considered the Crown’s wealth her own; and neither did her daughter now.

Her daughter. Daud had _raised_ an Empress. The thought still felt untrue. She’d only been a girl when he’d first met her, but the girl destined to be ruler of the Isles nonetheless. Corvo and Jessamine had raised a good kid, one who would did not sit idly by and watch injustice unfold before her. Still, the Crown was, at the very least, complicit in what was happening across the Empire. And then sometimes what Daud saw when he looked at the young woman on the throne was still the slip of a girl who’d sat next to him in a dingy pub, doodling with crayons and asking him about pirates. None of it quite fit together in his head.

Daud slept in Corvo’s bed as many nights as he could and as he felt himself growing older he found he really appreciated a safe, dry place to rest. He himself didn’t get rich from his work as an agent — he received pay, obviously, but most of it he used for missions and to bribe informants. He liked to joke that, at the Tower, he mostly earned his keep by keeping Corvo warm at night, which usually earned him a pinch and a glare. Still, it was true. It was a comfortable life, for an assassin.

Emily was doing her best to change things, that he knew. It was this that kept him going out on missions, acting as her agent. Nothing would befall her on his watch.

* * *

> Corvo — 
> 
> _For simplicity’s sake, I’ll include my official report on the transition of power in Karnaca with this letter. I’ve observed what I could of the new Duke’s public appearances, and have been talking to a few old contacts as well as eavesdropped on just about every politician in the city._
> 
> _I_ _also_ _endeavoured to_ _reach_ _Hypatia in her apartment near Addermire Station, but she was not_ _at home_ _. The shopkeeper below told me that she_ _rarely_ _returns_ _to the mainland_ _anymore, choosing instead to remain at the institute to work on_ _her serum_ _. As I’d been hoping for_ _only_ _a_ _brief_ _visit, seeing as we’ve heard so little of her over the past few months, I hadn’t the time to take the carriage out into the bay. I’ll take more time to do so nex_ _t time_ _an assignment brings me to Karnaca._
> 
> _In her stead, however, I did speak to Lucia Pastor and Aramis Stilton a few days later. I gave_ _Stilton_ _Emily’s letter, which seemed to_ _please_ _him somewhat; so we can rest assured she found the right words to convey our condolences. I did not press him on his grief for it was clear enough in his face. He excused himself early, citing_ _a_ _meeting with a friend — a boat captain, I believe — and Pastor revealed to me, in confidence after he’d left, that she would not have let him go if he hadn’t promised not to be alone._
> 
> _If anyone we know who knows Luca about as well as his own father did, it would be Stilton; and what little he did say during our meeting that day confirmed what we’d heard through unofficial channels, and what I’d observed during my previous travels to Serkonos. The young Duke appears easily led, but possesses at least some cunning in weaselling himself out of trouble, which will serve him well in dealing with advisors and officials alike. Most of all, he is all too aware of his power, and has been since he realised he would one day rule Serkonos. Those not yet afraid to do so describe him as egotistical and pleasure-seeking above all else. All of that is recent, but there are older stories, too. Remind me to tell you some of them when I return._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _— Daud_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) So, basically, pain.  
> b) Daud finally admitted a thing he didn't dare say in Part 3. I'm so proud of him.  
> c) I'm so proud of all of them.  
> d) Emily/Wyman/Alexi!!!!!!!  
> e) This chapter took five rounds of editing. FIVE.


	5. Chapter Four — It took you years to cross the lines of self-defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As tensions between Dunwall and Karnaca grow, there's a mystery brewing in Wyrmwood Way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lads, and welcome back to another episode of Shit Goes Weird in Dunwall! There's only two more chapters to go, and then I've already started working on Part 5, which will be the updated version of Dishonored 2!! I'm looking to start posting **Stories of the Street** in early September.
> 
> This chapter includes a reworking of The Wyrmwood Deceit, which is a truly excellent graphic novel — not least because it gave us Martha Cottings.
> 
> Soundtrack: [Watch Your Back, by Sam Tinnesz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOn0QixT0s8&index=60&t=0s&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN).

 

> **_DUNWALL COURIER_ **
> 
> _20_ _ th _ _Day, Month of Harvest, 1849_
> 
> **_Growing Tensions Between Governments in Dunwall and Karnaca_ **
> 
> _It seems as though, as our attentive readers will perceive, yet another wrench has been thrown into the already not so well oiled machine that were relations between the nations of Gristol and Serkonos. Although both the late Empress Jessamine and her daughter_ _had_ _held friendly rapport with Duke Theodanis, Empress Emily Kaldwin seems to have increasing trouble keeping his son, Duke Luca Abele, in line. After his father’s death in 1847, Luca raised eyebrows across the Empire by tearing down the old ducal palace; building a modern monument to his family — to his own greatness, many muttered — instead. There were other, minor infractions that by themselves would not have been cause for conflict but taken together moved some to appeal to Her Majesty for intervention even where, by design, the crown of a foreign nation_ _(even Gristol)_ _dare not tread_ _._ _N_ _aming Kirin Jindosh, expelled from the Academy of Natural Philosophy in 1843, his Grand Inventor was one such decision many took as a_ _n_ _affront towards Dunwall._
> 
> _More serious issues have made themselves known since then, however: Duke Luca has moved to apply pressure on the owners of Karnaca’s silver mines, demanding greater productivity and longer shifts. Some mine owners, such as_ _Duncan Bayles have shown_ _themselves happy to comply — in theory, for there are political safeguards in place. Together with the Miners’ Families Committee, headed by Lucia Pastor and supported mainly by Aramis Stilton, the workers have heretofore_ _appealed_ _, successfully, to disregard such political demands. These demands, however, had previously never come from the Grand Palace itself, as Duke Theodanis had been a friend to both Stilton and the miners’ families. In the years since his death, these demands have increased both in frequency and in political_ _weight_ _._
> 
> _While Parliament in Dunwall has never publicly commented on the state of the mines in Karnaca, legislation has been passed in recent years improving the conditions of the remaining mines in Gristol; most notably following the financial collapse of the Pendleton estate after the disappearance of brothers Morgan and Custis. It seems therefore likely that, under the veil of diplomacy, envoys have been sent to Karnaca to aid the Miners’ Families Committee in their efforts to keep the mines operating at a pace and load that is acceptable to both the demand on silver as a resource and the miners themselves._
> 
> **_Mine Owner Missing Under Mysterious Circumstances_ **
> 
> _Reports have reached us, however, that these efforts may soon become considerably harder to undertake; for it has come to our attention that Aramis Stilton has disappeared without a trace._ _Very little is known about the situation, only that servants found the manor abutting Batista Overlook empty one morning, their master vanished. The Grand Guard was duly called in for a search, but has turned up nothing. A search of the grounds has reportedly revealed nothing but a few bloodied handprints — yet, no body. The Grand Guard is reluctant to speak of either murder, accident, or abduction; but has conceded to have heard no tell of a ransom demand._
> 
> _With Aramis Stilton gone, the precarious balance between mine owners, workers, and stakeholders might become forever altered._

* * *

**Late in the Month of Rain, 1849**

Two months after the sudden disappearance of Aramis Stilton, Corvo only looked up from his work when Thomas interrupted him with the words, “I have a letter from Daud, sir. And another — from Meagan Foster.”

Corvo had hesitated to send Daud to Serkonos — first, to wait to hear from one of his agents already based there; but most importantly to hear from Billie Lurk. She’d let slip, in one of her few reports over the years, that she was friends with Aramis Stilton, if only by way of warning Corvo that Stilton had mentioned to her a ‘grizzled sort of soldier, one she’d probably have a few things in common with.’ Thankfully, she seemed to have, so far, averted the danger of being invited to the same dinner as Daud, but the risk of having them both operating in Karnaca, and meeting the same people, was not lost on Corvo.

In any case, her friendship with Stilton should have surely predisposed her to investigating his disappearance. Taking into account that Captain Foster, as she was now, might have been away at sea during the Month of Harvest, Corvo had still grown too impatient — and Daud, for his part, too inquisitive as to his reticence even after the first report from Corvo’s network had come in. According to them, Stilton had simply vanished, the house empty as had been reported in the papers, with suspiciously little indication of foul play. So Daud had gone to Karnaca, eventually. That the arrival of his letter should coincide with Billie’s was… unusual. Thomas deposited the latest Watch reports and the letters on his desk and excused himself. Corvo looked up to see Geoff Curnow waiting in the open door, and smiled slightly. When they’d left, he turned to his correspondence — Daud’s letter first.

 

> _Corvo —_
> 
> _Stilton remains gone and vanished, as per your initial reports, but something’s changed: the manor in Batista — Dust District, as it’s becoming known already among bookies’ runners and street urchins —_ _h_ _as been locked down and secured with what looks to be one of Jindosh’s monstrosities he calls inventions. It’s a damned riddle, Corvo, completing a sequence based on incomplete clues. If I had more time and, more importantly, some peace and quiet and no audience, I could solve it; but the place is swarming with people entertained only by their own morbid curiosity. As it is, I can sneak in during the early hours and copy down the riddle, to work on it in my hide-out, but_ _at this point I doubt entering the house would_ _do m_ _e_ _any good in finding evidence as to Aramis’ whereabouts._
> 
> _Word on the street is that the Duke has bought the house, bathroom sinks and all. What his plans are, no-one knows, he appears not to make use of the estate at present. The lock looks to be yet another extravagance: of course Luca would commission Jindosh to design a damned lock to keep looters away. The Grand Palace is the_ _exact_ _opposite of this place: out on its own island, it’s difficult to reach in itself and impossible to enter without invitation. Why Luca would bother with a manor in the right middle of one of the busiest districts of Karnaca seems a mystery — besides the obvious. He’s thumbing his nose at those Stilton’s disappearance hurts the most: the miners’ union right across the square._
> 
> _I have no doubt that Stilton’s work to curb the Duke’s efforts to exploit the mines and increase production beyond the pale is the reason for his disappearance, and equally I have no doubt Luca is behind it._ _I_ _cannot issue any theories as to how, but the motive seems clear. Of course there are rumours: that Stilton’s gone mad, for one, and that he’s roaming Serkonos. The man with two faces, they whisper, and it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard — except I’ve_ _met_ _people with two faces, and they were altogether unpleasant. If Stilton has indeed gone mad — with the Void, with drink, with grief — we’ll find him. But so far, there is no trace beyond those whispers, and I fear more than any other possibility that Aramis is dead, buried in a shallow grave in Luca Abele’s rose garden._
> 
> _I’ll stay a few more days, just to see what I can dig up. Lucia Pastor got a message to me, asking for assistance, and I’ll hear what she has to say before I make the return journey to Dunwall. Tell Emily to be careful in her dealing with the Serkonan Trade Commission. Now that Luca has been relieved of one of his strongest opponents, he’s going to become even more of a loose cannon than before._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _— Daud_

Corvo sighed. It was as he’d feared. He’d waited too long, and with the trail gone cold, there was only one hope left. He opened Billie’s letter, only to be met with even more consternation.

 

> _Royal Protector —_
> 
> _For what it’s worth, I have received your request for assistance. But all I can tell you is this: leave the case alone. Stilton’s gone, he wasn’t the first among Luca’s allies to disappear, and he won’t be the last._
> 
> _As for myself, I want nothing more to do with it._
> 
> _We’re done._
> 
> _— M. F._

Corvo gritted his teeth. After everything Foster — _Lurk_ — had done, good and bad, now they were ‘done’? Corvo should have expected something like this, after so many years, her spirit undoubtedly chafing at still being beholden to the throne — and by extension, the knife — she’d once betrayed, but now? Aramis had been her _friend_.

Well, obviously not enough of one. Corvo burnt the letter, as he always did. Then, he left his quarters to speak to Emily.

* * *

Emily knew the only moments truly her own were those scant minutes spent dozing before Wyman and Alexi woke, nuzzling their hair and willing the day to hold off just a little longer. Over the years, she had learnt why her mother had rarely ever even admitted Corvo into the hidden room on the second floor. Solitude, little though Emily had the time to find herself yearning for it while caught in the business of the day, was hard to come by; and it was generally the crowdedness of palace life that threw it into sharp relief. There was always someone at her shoulder: Wyman, Alexi, Corvo, Daud, the Whalers, Ramsey, a steward or a maid, a member of the Court, or one of her advisors. She begrudged none and resented only few of them, but the fact remained that the day of an Empress was filled with more than her whims, and her nights… well.

Wyman and Alexi still had duties beside her pleasure, curiously enough, she thought with a sardonic smirk. Alexi was assisting Corvo with the new recruits more often than not, and Wyman still returned to Morley or travelled across the Isles whenever called upon to do so by their father. Emily liked old Lord Connachta — he had been genuinely delighted at their union, unofficial as it was. He was a good man who wanted the best for his child. Wyman’s mother had passed away only a year before they had first been sent to Dunwall and so Emily had never met her; but understood from Wyman that she would have liked Emily enormously. That, then, was enough for her.

That night, Emily was in her study, alone. Alexi had the night shift once again, and Wyman had been called back to Alba for a week or so; barely enough to make the trip worth it, but their father had urgently requested their assistance and Wyman wasn’t one to dawdle when begged for help. Emily herself had enough to occupy her mind and time, but that night she felt restless. Not the first time, certainly not the last, but more intensely than before. She could see the rising moon through her window, and it had never seemed so inviting; beckoning her to move among the shadows it created. So often, she’d thought about sneaking out, through her safe room — she had access to the roofs from there, she could be across the Tower District within minutes. But she knew, too, that she would not escape unseen. The Whalers would be hot on her tail and, worse, there was no question in Emily’s mind that no bribery in the Isles would prevent them from going tattling to Corvo and Daud at the first opportunity. She would be found out and while they could hardly _ground_ her, Emily knew they would be disappointed. Dropping her pen, splotches of ink erupting across the parchment of the official letter she’d been writing, Emily leaned back and sighed, rubbing her brow in a gesture she wasn’t sure whether she’d picked up from Daud or plainly inherited from Corvo, but she knew was ultimately useless in staving off the impending headache. She was twenty-two years old, the ruler of four nations, and the thought of Daud and Corvo _disappointed_ in her unsettled her as though she were still a little girl. (She dare hardly wonder what Wyman and Alexi would say when — _if_ — they caught her sneaking out like a damned teenager.)

Of course, a sensible voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like her mother, suggested she might simply _talk_ to Corvo and Daud about it, discuss what to do. She huffed a laugh. They’d say no; and they’d still say no _and_ scold her if she went out in secret. She supposed it was the prerogative of youth to do something even though getting caught was not only very likely, but carried with it additional trouble. The call of the rooftops, dark and as yet unpredictable, was a temptation Emily knew she would yield to, in time.

In… roughly ten minutes.

*

Five shadows appeared behind her as Emily made her way down the slated tiles of the smaller roofs abutting the Tower from the corridor leading away from her safe room. She gritted her teeth and did not turn, only spared them a brief glance over her shoulder, then continued on.

Not knowing the terrain very well yet, her progress was slower than she would have liked, and she didn’t yet dare pick up speed for the sake of it as she circumvented the patrols on the streets — she was reckless enough, but not stupid. Her shadows continued in her wake, giving her an embarrassingly long leash. Not too afraid of losing her, were they? Or, rather, of her losing them. Emily scowled as she judged the jump between two houses separated only by a narrow alleyway. She knew full well she might not get another chance to try very soon. Corvo could not force her, no, but he could put on that pleading face of his and _ask_ , and Emily’s need for independence would war with her determination never to intentionally hurt her father. As for Daud, he would glare and mutter about lessons learnt, and Emily would remember the time he’d sat down next to her on the ground of the training yard, carefully inspecting the cut on her hand, inflicted by her own reckless handling of a practice blade. Wordlessly, he’d used whatever ability it was that let him summon things to his hand from across the room to retrieve a vial of elixir from one of the benches, unstoppered it and poured a small amount on the cut, which at least stopped bleeding, if not smarting like the Void.

“Going to need stitches,” he’d said quietly as the Whalers around them ceased their sparring to see if she was alright.

Corvo had happened to choose that moment to enter and, upon perceiving their situation, blinked right next to Emily, crouching down to inspect the injury but leaving her hand in Daud’s secure grasp.

“It was my own fault,” Emily had admitted, chagrinned, not wanting anyone else to get in trouble with the Royal Protector.

“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his,” Daud had jerked his thumb at Corvo, who had turned to him in clear indignation, albeit looking as though he knew exactly what was coming. “Twirling that folding sword of his like it’s a baton.”

“I do no such thing!” Corvo had defended himself.

“Oh, you do. Back alley fencer,” Daud had challenged.

“And you? Tavern brawler, judging by your nose,” Corvo had shot back.

It had taken Emily a moment to realise that they were _bickering_. So, evidently, had Thomas.

“Masters, please,” he’d muttered from somewhere behind her. Corvo and Daud had broken the hold of their gazes then, looking somewhat caught out.

“I’ll take Emily to see Sokolov, he’s in the lab,” Corvo had decided then.

She had indeed needed stitches, and despite Daud’s quick reaction and Sokolov’s neat needlework, there remained a faint scar on Emily’s right palm. She rubbed her thumb over it now, as she prepared to take the leap.

* * *

When Rulfio reported one morning that the Empress had decided to go on a nightly adventure across the rooftops, Daud wasn’t surprised. And, to be fair, neither was Corvo. He was, however, uneasy.

“Look,” Daud said, putting down the report he’d been reading and leaning on the desk, “see it as an extension of her training. The Whalers can chase her _and_ protect her; and head her away from our own patrol routes.”

“Of course,” Corvo returned with a raised eyebrow, “until one day she’ll be able to elude them.“

“Not without powers.” Daud was confident enough in that.

Corvo weighed his head.

“I know you don’t like it, but she’s been raised by a pack of assassins, what did you expect. She’s going to get into trouble anyway, we might as well—”

“Enable her?“ Corvo interrupted.

“Make sure she has back-up. Caging her won’t accomplish anything except to make her angry.”

And so, patiently, they waited.

* * *

So, as it happened, did Emily. But the reproach didn’t come, even as she _knew_ that one of the Whalers who’d followed her that night must have gone to rat her out. Rulfio, most likely. Still, she waited. No-one said anything for a week, then two. She was halfway ready to just burst out with it over breakfast one morning, then realised that that was what _they_ were waiting for. They were testing her.

Alright. She could play at that game.

She let another week pass, and then she went out again; her last chance before Wyman returned. Once they were back, she would have to… divulge her little secret, and weather the fierceness of Wyman’s concern for her safety before convincing them that, apparently, she had her fathers’ approval. A strange thought, to say the least. She would have to tell Alexi, too, if Corvo hadn’t done so already just to get her into trouble with _someone_.

But so it happened, and as the months wore on, Emily grew better and better at navigating even unknown slopes of roofs and walls, and at shaking one or two of her tails as well; determination and, in truth, spitefulness urging her on. It took her a while, but eventually she realised what Corvo and Daud had been playing at, letting her run off at night — it was a lesson. As patronising as it had felt to be given training wheels, Emily had to admit that it had made her better at avoiding detection and spotting a tail and working out how to lose them much faster than she would have become on her own, simply trying to stay out of sight of Watch patrols and whoever else she might encounter.

“You’re getting good,” Rulfio murmured to her one day, escorting her to a council meeting. “Gave me the willies when I couldn’t see you for a minute there.”

Emily said nothing, acknowledging his words merely with a nod. It was all that would be spoken of the subject.

* * *

Daud did not always return to Dunwall during the day. Often enough, he arrived under the cover of darkness, stealing into the district from the general direction of the harbour, making for the Tower itself first. It was rare that he took a detour towards Market Street; only if he was truly too tired to make his way further than the bed he scarcely slept in. Usually, the need to see Corvo, to slip under the covers beside him and to sigh as he, barely even waking, curled his arms around him and breathed deeply against his neck, won out over any complaint of his ageing bones. And age he did, he knew it.

That night, he arrived at the Tower to find Corvo’s chambers empty. On patrol, then. Daud slipped out into the corridors, quickly finding his steps up to the throne room, then upstairs to Emily’s quarters. He passed a few Whalers on his way, who greeted him with grins and shallow bows, and he made sure to stay out of the way of any guards that should not be made aware of his presence. Rinaldo was waiting for him at the top of the stairs towards Emily’s private rooms.

“She’s in her study, sir,” Rinaldo told him. “And welcome back.”

“Thank you,” Daud said, the simple pleasantry feeling foreign still, after all these years. Coming home would never not feel strange, Daud supposed, after so long of having nothing to come home to.

Just then, the door to the royal apartments opened and Wyman poked their head out, grinning when they met Daud’s eyes.

“Thought I’d heard something. Welcome back, Daud,” they greeted him in the same vein as Rinaldo.

“Good evening, Wyman,” Daud walked towards them and put a hand on their shoulder in greeting when they fully emerged from behind the door. “Didn’t think you’d beat me here from Morley.”

“My father’s business in Wynnedown was concluded earlier than expected,” they said. “And good thing, too, it’s a nice thing to win any sort of race against you.“

Daud huffed a laugh. “If you like. It’s good to see you back.” Daud raised his chin towards the study. “Do you think the Empress would put up with an interruption?”

It was Wyman’s turn to laugh. “Do remind her of the time, if you don’t mind. Alexi has been back from patrol for over an hour, and would long to see her.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Wyman retired to the chambers once again, and Daud made for the door to the study, knocking briskly.

“Come in,” Emily called from within, and so Daud did as he was bid and entered. At his appearance, Emily got up from her chair and rounded the desk to march towards him, then to throw her arms around him.

“Welcome back!”

“So everyone keeps saying, you’d think I must have been gone for a month,“ Daud teased her as he returned her embrace, taking her look of reproach when she withdrew in good humour. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Emily told him, walking back towards her desk and bidding him to follow and sit. He did follow, but declined the seat. She smirked, knowing why well enough. Still, she made him work for it, as she should. “Only reports keeping me up, Corvo has been inundating me with paperwork. I think it’s belated revenge,” she added coyly, dangling the promise of information before his nose like a prize.

“And where, pray tell, is your father?” Daud resigned himself to asking.

“Out on patrol,” Emily conceded with a smile. “You’ll find him somewhere by the Clocktower.”

“Hmm,” Daud hummed. “Thank you.” He turned to leave, but now without one last aside. “Wyman and Alexi asked me to remind you of the time.” He caught the last of Emily’s wince over his shoulder.

*

In truth, Daud probably could have found Corvo easily enough without asking which district he was heading patrol in tonight. The tug of the Void still existed between them — not quite Arcane Bond, not quite entanglement; but Daud could feel it surge now as he closed in on Corvo.

There.

Daud was not one to romanticise, to be starstruck or overwhelmed by beauty, where it existed in the world. So why then did he stop in his tracks and observe as Corvo stood, tall and looming, silhouetted by the moon and casting shadows long and deep?

Because he was a fool.

When he was close enough, Corvo turned, looking right up in his direction. Daud transversed down to him, stepping in close. Corvo reached to push the mask up over his forehead.

“Come to take me home?“ Corvo asked quietly.

In lieu of an answer, Daud kissed him.

*

As it turned out, they didn’t even make it as far as home. Corvo headed them off halfway to the Tower — towards Market Street. Daud, feeling the same distant thrumming in the air, growing louder and more insistent, did not question the change in direction. Did not question, either, when Corvo crowded against his back as he unlocked the door; did not question when Corvo was on him as soon as they were inside, kicking the door closed behind him and tearing off his mask, setting it down on a low table. Daud did not question the shiver travelling through him at Corvo’s hungry gaze, followed hotly by desire when Corvo advanced until Daud’s back was against the wall.

Corvo kissed him deeply, thoroughly.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“Show me,” Daud whispered back. For a moment, they paused, and then Daud flipped them so Corvo’s back hit the wall, pressed himself against his chest. “Show me so I can show you.“

*

Two things Corvo had learnt over the years. One, was not to push his luck. The other: Daud was a fucking _biter,_ when he let loose. Corvo rubbed his thumb over one of the marks on his shoulder, smiling, looking down at Daud’s head where it was pillowed on his chest.

As they lay together, Corvo brushed his fingers through the strands of Daud’s hair. Daud's temples had gone silver first, and now there were streaks of grey in the rest of it as well, making him look even more handsome in Corvo’s esteemed opinion. To Corvo, it was a sign that Daud was alive, and with him, and got to live a new life, the life he'd long given up on over a decade ago. Right now, it was unkempt and dishevelled from their tumble between the sheets, strands falling down over Daud’s forehead. Daud always shaved still, but Corvo had let his beard grow out a little, well aware of the grey flecking his own hair. Daud, knowing full well why Corvo liked to play with his hair, tilted his head up and smirked at him, then drew himself up level with him to rub his cheek against Corvo’s stubble.

“Welcome home,” Corvo murmured.

Daud kissed his jaw. “Not quite there yet,“ he rumbled, and Corvo’s heart did a little jig. “How about we make ourselves presentable, and get back to the Tower? Your bed is more comfortable,” Daud squirmed a little to make his point. “And I know you like watching me fix myself after you’ve gone and messed me up so nicely.”

Such words from Daud’s mouth, _in that voice_ , did nothing to make Corvo want to _leave_ this bed, or the feeling of Daud’s warm, naked skin against his, but Daud had a point.

“Alright,” Corvo said quietly. “Give me something to look at, then.”

Daud grinned.

* * *

“She’s good,” Corvo told Alexi as he clipped his sword back onto his belt. “Almost good enough. But young.“

“I was young, too,” Alexi — Lieutenant Mayhew — remarked bluntly when he joined her on the steps leading up towards the Tower gardens. “Yet, you trust me with your daughter’s safety.” She eyed him. “And you’re not _getting younger_.”

Corvo shot her a critical glance. “See if you’ll ever make Captain with that attitude, _Mayhew_ ,” he returned gruffly. Alexi allowed herself a small smile.

Corvo shook his head, smiling himself. He turned back to watch as the members of the squad he’d just put through their paces — or the wringer, depending on whom one asked — picked themselves back off the ground. Cottings was the first to be back on her feet. “Keep her on,” Corvo decided. “With time, we’ll see if she should know.”

“Sir.”

*

Daud was reading reports from his contacts in Karnaca — some were smugglers, others were gang members who didn’t mind passing on a few details for some coin. And now, one of them had sent over a small, but significant morsel of information: Breanna Ashworth had taken a minor position at the Royal Conservatory in Cyria Gardens, assisting the museum’s curator. Daud could scarcely picture her as an art historian, much less a clerk, but that seemed to be her new calling. The Conservatory’s board had chosen her and four other applicants to extend the staff, citing the growing number of exhibits and geographical research being done within the institution. The Conservatory was currently in negotiations with the Academy of Natural Philosophy, over the specifics of a loan: the Roseburrow Prototype.

Daud was less interested in the prototype — and more interested in the witch. More out of principle than any suspicion of a threat; but the presence of someone like Ashworth within even just the extended circles of the Duke let Daud make a mental note to keep himself apprised of the situation. Of course, he was being overly suspicious. Ashworth had the qualifications, her family having been associates of art dealer Bunting for many years. She was suited to the position; and she was no longer a member of Delilah’s coven. Emily had released the witches in years ago, and as such they had been pardoned of their crimes — even Ashworth. Corvo and Daud had argued against her release at first, but in the end, Emily had decided that it would be unlawful to hold them all indefinitely, especially since no such charge as treason had been made.

Daud sighed, and sorted away Dmitri’s report. They’d keep an eye. It was what they did.

*

Emily sighed as she rubbed her brow to ward off the impending headache — paperwork left her feeling more drained than any training session with Corvo, Daud, and a dozen overeager Whalers ever could. But she was nearly done now, and then she could join Wyman, and hopefully Alexi as well, in her private quarters.

Just then, someone knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

“Your Majesty,” Alexi teased as she entered, looking tired but smiling at her Empress.

“Alexi,” Emily said warmly. “I’d hoped you might in return in time for me to wrap up for the night.”

Alexi walked towards her, around the desk, to stand at her side. Alexi laid her hand on Emily’s cheek as she looked up at her lieutenant, gently drawing her thumb along her temple. Emily could scarcely believe herself so fortunate — for not only Wyman to have won her heart, but for her best friend to love her as well. Between them, she should think herself a lucky woman. What empress could present herself as wanting for so little in the matters of her own heart? It was matters of state and the Empire, then, that worried Emily — and set her to pursue the happiness of all her citizens.

“So you’re not haunting the rooftops tonight?”

“No, not tonight. Corvo and Daud are out on patrol, and I dislike the thought of them trailing me. It is bad enough when Rulfio sends me disapproving looks over the morning’s reports because he thought my technique to be lacking. Which is rich, considering he trained me in traversing obstacle runs.”

Alexi laughed a little at Emily’s indignation, mostly feigned as it was. Emily reached up to catch her hand in her own, drawing her closer to kiss the back of it, then lace their fingers together.

“And you? Have you any news?”

Alexi’s brow furrowed a little. “Perhaps.”

“What is it?”

“Ramsey… well, you know he was not best pleased with my promotion.”

Emily only just held in a snort. “Yes, I remember his sour face very well. Honestly, that man holds a grudge against _someone_ , and I have not yet discovered who. As it is, I’m not sure I should like to find out.” Emily paused, watching Alexi’s expression turn to worry. “What, you think it’s _you_?”

“No, it’s not that. But he has been acting... strange ever since he returned from Karnaca.”

“I know you had your reservations about dispatching him to smooth things over with the Grand Guard after the incident with the rats, but he was the right man to send; and, frankly, with Curnow being gone to Morley at the time, the only one I could spare.”

“I do not fault your decision, Em,” Alexi set her right. “I fault him for being a cagey bastard.”

A little against her will and most likely counter to Alexi’s sensitivities, Emily let out a short laugh. “That he is, but in truth has always been; ever since he was promoted to the Tower Watch.”

“I know. But what if he has become… dissatisfied with his position? I know he received it as reward for pointing out the guard that betrayed you to the Regenters, but perhaps he had hoped for more than merely this.”

“Glory, you mean?” Emily teased, and now Alexi did frown at her for not being serious.

“Hush,” she scolded. “Glory, perhaps, yes. But you remember his family lost everything during the Plague, and then his uncle refused to help them.”

Not that Jack Ramsey had much to show for it, Emily thought. His whale oil refineries had closed over the years, for all but one. He had branched out, of course, but his capital had taken a hit or three that his portfolio would never recover from, no matter if he made twice of what his earnings during the Plague years had been.

“I remember,” Emily said, making a mental note to speak to Daud and Corvo about this at the next opportunity. But there was something else she wished to speak to Alexi about. “Corvo told me you introduced Officer Cottings along with the other recruits,” she added.

Alexi smiled, and nodded. “I did. He was impressed with her. She’s a capable officer. I very much wish for her to advance within the ranks.”

“And you’re sure she would… understand?“

“That remains to be seen, but, truly, I think her convictions are strong but equally her mind relies on proof of what she can see and do — and even if she is convinced magic does not exist now, she will bow to proof of its existence.”

Emily worried her lower lip with her teeth. “Let us hope her conviction holds, then.“

* * *

The chance for Watch Officer Martha Cottings to prove her mettle came earlier than expected, or intended. Daud and Corvo split duties that night — Daud would take a few Whalers into Drapers Ward, to follow a lead on incoming contraband. Corvo, in a more official capacity, was to make his way into the Old Port District with a squad of his own; among them, Cottings.

Enough was known about the Roaring Boys to know that their chief objective was trouble, even before smuggling. Split off from the Hatters’ main gang, they had found themselves their own hunting ground. They smuggled anything from weapons to exotic animals and equipment — and that should have been it. Dangerous things, unusual perhaps, but still mostly of this world. What Corvo and Cottings encountered, then, was dangerous and unusual; but by no means natural.

A man, but barely, and grotesquely all Corvo could think upon seeing him for the first time was that it was as though looking into a mirror whilst wearing his mask. He never liked to dwell on the fact that he wasn’t quite human anymore, that none of them touched by the Void were. He’d once called the mask Piero had made for him the face of death; and it had been what felt like the true face of death staring back at him when he came eye to eye with the man they would later come to call Broken Tom. They fought him — and lost.

*

When Corvo came to, a dark voice rumbled low in his ear. “Wake up, love. C’mon, let me see those eyes.”

Corvo grunted to show he was conscious, if not… awake. “The one that’s not swollen shut, you mean,” he muttered, but fought to look up at Daud where he was leaning over him. “Hello.”

“‘Hello,’ he says,” Daud groused, but bent his head to quickly kiss Corvo anyway. “I leave you alone for ten minutes.” A pause. “What happened? Alexi couldn’t tell me the rest of it because Cottings couldn’t tell _her_.“

“That’s because I tried to lure the man who attacked me away from the others,” Corvo muttered as he struggled to sit up, leaning into Daud’s grip when his hands came up to help him right himself. “Get him isolated, away from any witnesses.“

“To use your powers,” Daud surmised correctly.

“Yes. Only that turned out to be a miserable idea. His armour… he’s wearing some sort of suit, there are bone charms built into it. And his eye, he knew where I would _be_. He’s something more than human, Daud, perhaps even something more than us. Broken Tom, he called himself, and I can believe it. They had to have pulled him apart to put him back together the way he is now.”

“Is he touched by the Outsider?“

Corvo could only shake his head. “I didn’t see a Mark, and he didn’t seem to possess any abilities like ours. I couldn’t _use_ mine. If he was built to a purpose, it’s… it’s got to be to kill someone like us, not become one of us.”

Daud considered this, then nodded. “How did the fight end?”

“He punted me clean through a window. I was lucky I landed on the pier below, not in the water. I would have drowned,” Corvo admitted before he could stop the words. Daud’s hand found his, holding on — a gesture instead of the words Corvo knew he would have barely been able to hold in, had he been in Daud’s position. Corvo sighed, leaning back against the headboard a moment. “But that’s not all.“ He looked around. “Where are my things?“ He spotted his coat draped over the back of the settee. He nodded towards it. “Top inside pocket, there’s a note. Please.”

Daud sent him a searching glance, but got up and retrieved the coat; and with it the note. He handed it, still folded, to Corvo, but Corvo shook his head.

“Read it.“

So Daud did, and when he looked up, the expression on his face told Corvo that he had not been deceived by the contents of the letter.

“They,” Corvo broke off and swallowed. “Daud, they have my sister.”

*

Corvo had hated his — their — father for dying in a Void-damned lumber accident, for dying when Corvo was still so young and didn’t know how to understand the world without his father’s gentle guidance, for leaving them when Beatrici, too, had need of him the most. Corvo’s sister had been restless all season, and it had been soon after their father’s death that she had left. Left forever. Not a word — no letter, no gossip handed down on the markets from merchants who had seen her, deckhands she might have slipped a note or message. She’d first gone to Morley, that much Corvo and his mother had surmised from the entries in the diary she’d left behind. Two years later, Corvo had stood to compete in the Blade Verbena. Once he’d come to Dunwall, he had tried to find any trace of his sister here; but the city had already become too vast and sprawling then. Even amidst clamouring for better documentation of citizens travelling and working all across the Isles, immigration policies had, if anything, relaxed further in those days. With the advent of the Plague and other ills, that had changed; but still movement between the four nations was restricted relatively little.

And now, she had been taken. The note Corvo had found did not detail where she’d been found — where _they_ had been found. His sister had a _son_ , and they’d grabbed him, too.

Corvo had no doubt that it had been done to lure him into a trap. Anyone _taking the time_ to abduct Beatrici Attano knew damn well who her brother, her only surviving family, was. The note said very little, but going by what it _didn’t_ say, Corvo surmised that Beatrici and her child had been moved around quite a bit before finally being carted to Dunwall — Dunwall. His sister was _here_ , in his city. He could save her. And his nephew.

“Corvo,” Daud interrupted his brooding. “It’s _bait_ , you know it is.”

Corvo closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “Daud…”

“Don’t ‘we’ve been over this’ me,” Daud headed him off at the pass. “Yes, we’ve been over this, and you still won’t listen.”

“I have been listening,” Corvo turned to look at Daud. “I see the reason in your warnings; but if there is even the slightest chance that this is true, that they have her and my nephew, then I _have_ to try and save them. I—” he interrupted himself, not knowing how much plainer he could be. “I have to be sure,” he said eventually, raising his eyes to Daud’s. “I owe it to my family.”

 _You have a family_ , a traitorous voice murmured; and Corvo could not help but wonder if it was that which was plaguing Daud as well.

“If it is true,” Daud said at length, his tone dry, “your sister’s not going to approve of me."

Corvo’s lips ticked up in a small smile. ”I know who you are, and I love you. If Beatrici knew nothing of you but that, it would be enough."

*

“The Roaring Boys must have helped smuggling them all over the Isles,” Corvo said as he pinned a map of the Old Port District to one of the screens in his room. He moved gingerly still; his fall from the window had more than knocked the wind out of him. Toksvig had warned him to be careful, and Daud had endeavoured to lure him to bed for the sole purpose of _sleeping_ for the past few days, insistent on doing his part for Corvo to give himself time to rest. But with every passing day, the likelihood that they would find Beatrici and her son — Corvo’s _nephew_ — alive dwindled. “But whoever is behind this, it’s about more than contraband and trafficking.”

Across the desk, Daud raised a brow as if to say, ‘You think?’ but didn’t speak.

Jameson Curnow spoke up instead. His presence at these meetings was new, but over the past few years, his interest in the work Corvo and Thomas were doing had grown. As one of Emily’s closest childhood friends, along with Alexi, he had eventually been introduced to Daud as well. Officially, he acted as advisor to the Empress — unofficially, he was one of Corvo’s most trusted agents; and one who could go into places the Whalers couldn’t. The drawing rooms and parlours of Dunwall’s rich and famous.

“So what do we do? We can’t investigate both the man who attacked Corvo and the Roaring Boys, not in the same night.”

Corvo fixed him with a look. “Can’t we?”

“Sir?”

Daud sent Corvo a critical glance. “Cottings?”

Corvo nodded. “We let her chase down the leads she’s got on the smuggling operation. Beatrici is already in Dunwall, there’s not much to be gained for us in learning what route she took here. We need to find _him_ , and then find out what he’s got to do with the Roaring Boys, and why my sister’s a pawn in all this.”

“What if we’ve got it backwards,” Galia commented then. “What if your broken friend’s got nothing to do with your sister’s abduction, and he’s just palling up with the Roaring Boys because they drew your eye. What if he, and the smugglers, are working for someone else?”

“We can’t discount the possibility,” Corvo conceded. “But so far all the evidence points to him having taken over the flesh trade from Ludd, the old creep. If he’s working with the Roaring Boys, it’s likely for bone charms. As for Beatrici… I’ve made enough enemies in my time. Anyone could have an interest in hurting me through her, and many do. I might recognise the name, if there is one and we find it, I might not. It won’t make a difference.”

“Alright,” Galia nodded. “So, Cottings takes a squad to see the Roaring Boys. Where do we go?”

“We,” said Corvo, sticking a pin into the Cheapside end of the Old Port District, “are going boat hunting.“

* * *

The Whalers had not been idle in the few precious days Corvo had taken to recover from this most recent dust-up. They had discovered that Broken Tom housed on an old freight ship — and with him, cages and crates. Old freight and whaling ships were generally taken downriver to be hauled for scrap, but that part of the Wrenhaven had turned into a graveyard of steel and rust after several shipping companies had gone bankrupt and no-one had cared to pick up the tab. Not even the Crown could afford it, not comfortably; and Emily dreaded meddling too much for being accused of protectionism.

“If we’re lucky, it’s animals. If not, it’s children in those cages,” Kieron had reported grimly. The Whalers, back in the day, had always made it a point to stay away from the flesh traders, but they had not acted unless they’d received a contract, either. So while everyone knew what was going on, little was done. The City Watch rooted out the smugglers as best it was able, but Corvo was painfully aware that more had to be done to end the flesh trade. Perhaps this was their chance to end two evils in the same raid.

Martha Cottings had been dispatched to track down any leads on the Roaring Boys as she saw fit. When she’d mentioned planning to go see old Esmeralda Duggins in the heretic cells at Coldridge, Corvo and Alexi had exchanged an uneasy glance. The Abbey might have agreed to free the Brigmore witches a few years ago, as per Emily’s decree and position that they had paid for their crimes and would be of no more consequence without their leader to draw power from her or the Void; but old Esmeralda had been commanded to stay where she was. She was turning frail and brittle, and it was likely the guards wanted to be the ones to determine her death, rather than time and fate. It could not be long until the execution.

In any case, Corvo had sent her off with orders to be cautious, but to take no shit from anyone. Once she’d left, Daud had descended from the rafters.

“Esmeralda?” he’d questioned, and Corvo had shrugged.

“She’s thorough. Now we’ll see how capable on top of that.“

* * *

Even Corvo's detailed descriptions could not have prepared Daud for who — for _what_ — Broken Tom truly was.

"What in the Void," he whispered when a figure stepped out of the shadows, deep in the bowels of the ship.

"See who it is — the heroes of the day. Ye know, Protector, I was mighty disappointed your _friend_ wasn't with you last we spoke."

Corvo had no time for pleasantries. "Where is my sister?” he growled.

Daud hid his wince. Corvo was not given to keeping sight of the cards he had in front of him when someone he cared about was in danger — Daud had learnt _that_ the hard way.

Broken Tom — laughed. “Believed it, did ye? The paper trail of your sister, scattered across the Isles, only to land in Dunwall? Yes, to reel you in like bait, Corvo. And it _worked_.”

“You _what_?”

Daud barely had time to process the taunt, and Corvo’s angry reply: the closer Broken Tom came, the more clearly Daud could hear the hissing — the songs sung by the bonecharms sewn _into his skin and bones_ , Daud realised, just as Corvo had said. They were what was interfering with his and Corvo’s powers. Along with that seemingly all-seeing eye in his head, Broken Tom was the perfect heretic hunter.

It was fortunate, then, that Corvo and Daud were not jackrabbits. They could leap, but they could stay, too.

Daud drew his sword. They would have to rely on their cunning, now, not on the gifts the Void — the Outsider — had bestowed upon them. For a brief moment, Daud wondered what the Black-Eyed Bastard would say if he were presented with Broken Tom. Would it tickle him? Or was it another of those things he 'had never asked for.' Daud still did not know what that admonishment had meant, and he wasn't about to go asking now.

As Broken Tom barrelled towards them, Daud and Corvo dove into opposite directions, ducking behind engine parts and crates.

* * *

As it turned out, Martha Cottings was having a bad, bad night.

“I don’t know if the Royal Protector will give you a medal, or send you to Coldridge,” Alexi had sent the words at her back when she’d left the burning building in her wake. Six men dead, more injured. Fucking Esmeralda Duggins had lured them into a trap. Had lured _her_.

Now, as the blood ran from the wound in her side, Martha decided that Corvo very likely wouldn’t get to make that decision, after all. Turning into Wyrmwood Way, she spotted the bedraggled creatures, mudlarks and beggars, already staring her way. To them, she was meat — and loot, what little money that she had on her after bribing half the underworld for information would be squabbled over in the dirt. These vagabonds were nothing like the two grifters who’d tried to stick her up earlier, but the state she was in, even they’d be liable to get the best of her. And, well. The grifters had stuck her, after all, before she’d sent their brains all over the pavement and delivered them to the Void. At least one of them had not taken all his secrets with him into the dark. So she came to be here.

Within moments, the mudlarks were on her; Martha reached for her sword and ignored the pain and blood when, suddenly, fire roared in before her eyes.

“Away! Away! She belongs to my mistress! You know who I serve, and you know who you’ll have to answer to,” a wheezing voice threatened, and the creatures scurried away. Martha sunk to her knees from exhaustion if not reverence for her saviour, and tried to ask who it was he worked for, when the butt of a club slammed into her temple.

He wasn’t too keen on questions, then.

*

The terror of knowing she had caused the deaths of her fellow watchmen had nothing, however, on the terror that was yet to come. Paintings that came alive, a plot to find one close to Corvo Attano, Royal Protector, Spymaster, and devoted father to the Empress she served; and to turn her into a witch’s _pet_. Martha struggled in the wheezing man’s grasp as the snarling maw of the silver demon the witch had conjured writhed in front of her, just shy of getting its teeth into her. Martha could barely stand on her own, and she wished for her pistol so she could at least shoot the damn thing. She had Watch-learnt aim, right and true, and she wouldn’t mind dispensing a few bullets before she found her way into the Void for her foolishness tonight.

“All this,” Martha gritted through clenched teeth, not wanting to let on how badly injured she really was. “To get rid of the Royal Protector, then?”

“Him,” the woman — fancied herself a painter, evidently — said. “And his lover.“

 _His_ _lover_ , Martha thought incredulously. Everyone knew that Corvo and Empress Jessamine—

“ _Daud_ ,” the witch snarled the name with such disgust that Martha’s rebuke stuck in her throat.

She was young yet, but not so young that she did not remember the name still being whispered across the Isles, even in the small town where she grew up, just outside Cullero. Daud — the Knife of Dunwall. Rumours were that he’d been touched by the Outsider Himself; and there’d been a time when many had believed him to be the one who’d murdered the old Empress. Now, most believed him exiled or dead, or both. Certainly no-one would believe him to be the one to warm the Royal Protector’s bed at night.

“You’re mad if you believe that,” Martha eventually shot back at her captors.

“You know _nothing_ of your infamous Royal Protector.”

“I know enough,” Martha volleyed back. He was trustworthy, steadfast, and strong. He was secretive, too, but a man like him surely had his rights to _that_.

“Ah, but do you know that he himself is a heretic? Do you know that he shacked up with the assassin Daud after the loss of his fair Empress, that his daughter might as well be Daud’s in all but name? Who knows, perhaps he was screwing Empress Jessamine, too, before he failed her.”

“Liar!” Martha twisted in the wheezing man’s grip, and paid for it dearly when her wound began to bleed anew.

“They dispatched my mistress’ lady, the leader of our coven, and danced on her grave. Daud himself went to the Void but returned, by what sorcery or grace we do not know. But Delilah has returned now, too, more powerful than she’s ever been; and she will turn this world inside out for what it’s done to her.”

“Who the _fuck_ is Delilah?” Close to death as she suspected she was, Martha had had _enough_.

The witch got up from behind her damned easel now. “Delilah Copperspoon. Our rightful Empress, first of her name. She was so close to the throne once, before the girl was taken from her reach; and now, when she is ready, she will drive the little usurper from her Tower.”

“Emily Kaldwin is the rightful heir to the throne.”

“The only _throne_ her mother should have ever possessed was to be perched on the thighs of a low-born Serkonan and letting his seed spawn inside her. But the true throne was never hers, it was Delilah’s — her sister’s.”

Martha reared back instinctively. Sisters?

“Yes, a secret well concealed and kept, but Jessamine was not the Emperor’s only child. But she was cast out, ruined and destitute. She has returned to take back what is rightfully hers.”

“Why are you telling me all this?“

“Because there are a few things you will have to carry with you into the Void if you are to do my bidding, my child. Such as who your knew mistress truly is, and why you shall serve her without question.”

“Never!” Martha struggled, too angry to mind the pain now and too desperate. The witch made an impatient gesture with her hand and the wheezing man complied to drop her. Martha landed on her hands and knees. Good. Just the distraction she needed.

From within her coat, she drew the last knife she had left.

She had one shot — for Empress Emily, for Corvo. For the Empire.

She would make it count.

* * *

“How is she?” Emily asked as they observed the still figure on the bed in the infirmary.

“She’ll live,” Piero told her. “I just hope long enough to wake.”

* * *

She did live, and she did wake. Only, with half her memories of the night tarnished and gone. Her head had been nearly split in two by the debris of the house as it crumbled around her; the second one she’d sent up into flames, though this time by design — or so she’d been told. How she’d made it out alive, she didn’t rightly know; only that officers had found her and raced her towards the nearest barracks. Once it had been determined she would live long enough for Toksvig and Joplin to tend to her, she’d been moved to the Tower.

“Can you remember anything else, anything at all?” Corvo Attano was sitting in a rickety chair by her cot, looking as tired and worn as she felt. At least some of the bruises had healed.

Gingerly, she shook her head. “What I’ve got left is leaving Alexi at the house old Esmeralda Duggins gave me the tip for. Then… two Roaring Boys, threatening me. One of them must have gotten me. But after that… it’s all gone.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Lord Protector.”

Attano’s eyes were kind. “Whatever you did, I’m sure it made the city safer. And that’s all I would ask of any of my officers.”

“ _Your_ officers?” she asked hesitantly.

He nodded. “When you’re well again, I’d like you to meet a few people. You’ve proven yourself. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Attano weighed his answer. “Time for the truth.”

* * *

 

>   ** _DUNWALL COURIER_**
> 
> _16_ _ th _ _Day, Month of High Cold, 1850_
> 
> **_Addermire Institute Closed to the Public By Order of the Duke_ **
> 
> _It is thanks to our fellow editors at the Karnaca Gazette that we are able to report, with any reliance on facts, that the Addermire Institute for Infectious Diseases, led by Doctor Alexandria Hypatia since 1845, will remain closed to the public as of this month. This latest development arrives by order of the Duke himself, who has declared Addermire — and indeed, Doctor Hypatia herself — as under his personal protection._
> 
> _Many believe it is to do solely with the promised Bloodfly Fever cure. Hypatia has promised that a cure will be found as it has been for the Rat Plague that once haunted Dunwall. Voices adjacent to the Duke’s council whisper that he wants the Cure to himself, to make it available only to those who enjoy his favour. Again others believe he wishes to control production, to sell the Cure to his people rather than distribute it for free to those who need it, the cost of production subsidised by taxes, as it is done here in Gristol. Sokolov, Piero, and Hypatia did develop the Cure by order of the Crown, being provided their own extensive laboratory a Dunwall Tower, but the formula is still owned by them, as anyone will readily remind you; and the throne makes no profit from the selling of it._
> 
> _It would be particularly perfidious, then, for the Grand Palace in Karnaca to decree otherwise — and, certainly, our Empress would have something to say about it. Tensions have been heightened in recent months, since Duke Abele seized Aramis Stilton’s assets and took control of his silver mines. Trade delegations and officials have been in near constant contact for fear of an embargo or, worse, another blockade; the first since the height of the Rat Plague._
> 
> **_Liam Byrne to Be Named Vice Overseer of Karnaca_ **
> 
> _Sources close to the Office of the High Overseer have divulged that the search for a new Vice Overseer of Karnaca may be over. Overseer Liam Byrne, a son of Morley, has been reported to have been born into a workers’ family in Fraeport. It is said that he once encountered an Overseer passing through his district and was enraptured upon hearing him recite the Strictures. The Overseers are said to have kept an eye on him for months before taking him to participate in the Trials of Aptitude._
> 
> _To this day, Liam Byrne is the youngest Overseer in decades to hold the position of Vice Overseer of Karnaca. He will carry responsibility for the welfare of all of Karnaca, and indeed Serkonos. Already, it is known that Byrne might be embroiled in a bitter feud with an emergent gang that call themselves 'The Howlers‘ and their leader, Paolo; who have positioned themselves as incumbents to take over the black market trade in the old Batista Mining District._
> 
> **_Correy Brockburn Murdered in Lower Aventa_ **
> 
> _The young businessman and politician has been discovered dead near his office in the Lower Aventa District, opposite the car station. The Grand Guard declined to make any further comment beyond the fact that they are treating the crime as a murder case. Motive, at this moment, is little more than hearsay, although Brockburn has not been popular with everyone — after arriving from Dunwall after the death of his father in Coldridge Prison, where he'd been held for heretofore still undisclosed charges, Mr Brockburn had been a vocal opponent of Empress Emily Kaldwin. Among the latest policies he criticised was the Sharecropper Rights Act; widely held to be a necessary amendment to existing legislature, a welcome one especially in the more rural parts of Gristol. Brockburn himself received backlash for his harsh criticism from within political circles in Serkonos._
> 
> _Still, a personal motive cannot be excluded, some say. Yet others whisper of the string of gruesome murders recently committed in Karnaca and the surrounding towns. Again, the Grand Guard declined to comment._

Emily sighed as she put down the paper. Even as the Dunwall Courier endeavoured to take a more… balanced view of recent events, the Karnaca Gazette had shown no such care; all but more or less obliquely accusing the Crown of having dispatched Brockburn in an act of political assassination. 'Janice Tines, editor,' Emily remembered the by-line as her lip curled in disgust.

The Courier was not wrong in one regard: relations between Gristol and Serkonos, specifically Dunwall and Karnaca, were tense at best and close to breaking point at worst, depending on whom of her advisors and delegates she asked. Luca had, in the beginning, exercised _some_ restraint, but increasingly, his affronts and performative insults had grown to an extent Emily could no longer teeth-grindingly ignore. Corvo and Daud, not least, had shown concern regarding the state of the Batista District and its slow transformation into a landscape made of dust — it was their home, and even as they understood Emily’s caution in approaching Serkonos with sanctions, they were horrified at what was happening to the district they’d grown up in. Duke Luca was determined to wring as much silver from the earth as he could while he sat the throne of his father, and he did not care how many died in shaft collapses or of the Black Spittle; or how many children had to be stolen from their homes to be sent down into the mines.

And now, he'd restricted access to Addermire. They had heard of this development a few days before the editors of the Dunwall Courier had, and Daud was already on his way to Karnaca to seek to speak to Hypatia — unofficially; although Emily feared that the heavy guard presence Luca was sure to have installed at the Institute would make this undertaking too risky just for a chat between friends. They had so far opted not to infiltrate the ducal palace on the other side of the bay for that same reason. Emily was beginning to doubt the wisdom of caution in these matters. Luca worried her: his thirst for power would not be contained, and devoured whatever resistance he met in Serkonos.

And who was to say Serkonos was the limit of his ambition?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) This is where I really do start setting up for my version of Dishonored 2 — the elements may read familiar, but there are quite a few twists coming that I really hope you'll enjoy.  
> b) I figured out this week that Part 5 will deal quite intensively with Daud's relationship with the Heart/Jessamine's spirit, so, uh, here's your advance complementary box of tissues.  
> c) Daud and Corvo are horny old men on main.  
> d) Billie says she's done with shit — BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN???  
> e) By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. — This is legit the first time I solved a plot problem by giving a character amnesia. Hope you don't mind >:00


	6. Chapter Five — And simple kindness here, the solitude of strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The influence of the corroded mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo kids — we are SO CLOSE to the finale of this story!! Just another chapter; and then it's right on into Dishonored 2 °-°
> 
> This week: The Corroded Man has arrived in Dunwall, and he means _business_.
> 
> Soundtrack: [The Preacher, by Jamie N Commons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orivEatc2fw&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN&t=0s&index=61).
> 
> Content warning for borderline alcohol abuse — we spend some time with Galia in this one.

>   _Corvo —_
> 
> _At least now we have confirmation of what we've been suspecting. When the name 'Crown Killer' was_ _printed_ _for the first time, whispered into the ear of a reporter at the Karnaca Gazette, Luca showed his hand. These murders are being committed for calculated effect, even if the one committing them might only care about the rush and the bloodlust, not the faces of the ones they're ripping apart — literally. I have no doubt that the orders are coming from inside the Grand Palace; and as much as it would surprise me that a dilettante like Luca could work_ _something like this_ _alone, the orders are still,_ _by_ _the end, his._
> 
> _The crime scene was a mess: blood everywhere, covering the walls. I've seen death, and I've dispensed my share of it, if one cannot call it fair; but even I have never seen anything like this. This isn't the work of an assassin — it's messy, vulgar, as though it was an animal coming out at night to slaughter those who would dare raise their voices against the Crown. I feel rage inside me at the thought that Luca feels so secure, so safe in his little fortress, that he_ _would_ _do something so obvious right under our noses._ _He's trying to rile us, then; and frighten Emily's citizens into mistrusting her. Brockburn urging Gristol to hold a vote of No Confidence against her is proof enough of that. Nevertheless, I cannot shake the feeling that this is only what's happening on the surface._
> 
> _I travelled to Aventa to try and get a closer look at Jindosh's Clockwork Mansion. Access to the carriage station has already been restricted, and I have no doubt that Luca plans on sequestering everyone in their houses before too long; just to make sure no-one can talk to strangers and give them the latest gossip. I've sent a few informants in ahead of me. As it is, it will be nigh impossible to get into the house without_ _arousing_ _Jindosh's attention — or, failing that, breaking something of either value or function that he'll know to replace. I've only heard tales of this_ _mansion_ _, and if Jindosh is only half as crazed as Sokolov, I know it's a place I've no wish to set foot into unless I truly must._
> 
> _To bide my time, I attended one of the early auctions for Clockwork Sentinels, as Jindosh calls them. The public have yet to receive a glance at the finished thing, but the components that were on display and some of the (heavily redacted) schematics were enough to make me despise the things. Humanoid machines, with two arms and four blades in total. They're said to be able to scale buildings in a single bound — it's something we can_ _barely_ _do, I need not see a damned machine accomplish the feat. Even less so when I consider that Jindosh is Luca's Grand Inventor._
> 
> _Corvo, there can be no doubt in this — if Jindosh is building these things for Luca, there can only be one goal. To build an army._
> 
> _I'll keep trying to get close to Jindosh; and I've sent scouts out towards the bay and Addermire. I'll take the ship back to Dunwall in two weeks at the earliest._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _— Daud_

* * *

**Month of Darkness, 1851**

For all that they had been training Emily for nearly ten years now, it was this part of her ‘education’ that Corvo and Daud had instituted only rather recently. As they watched her traverse the rooftops leading out from the Tower and into the surrounding districts, Corvo dreaded the day she might ask about the Arcane Bond — and who was he fooling, she would. She was twenty-four years old, an experienced fighter. An assassin in training, if not name: she'd spilt blood, but not taken a life; and Corvo hoped she would never have to even as he knew this to be wishful thinking. One day, she would. To save her own life, or Wyman’s, or Alexi’s, or his and Daud's. He could only strive to be there that day, to lend her strength but never to guide her hand. And one day, she would ask to share the powers that bound him and Daud to the Void. Once he'd asked her to spare him the worry, the dread of knowing his only child within reach of that cold abyss; but she'd been barely thirteen then, and her stubbornness had only grown. It would save her, he knew, but it could also be her downfall.

Besides, any hand-wringing would be meaningless in the face of stark reality: Corvo would say no, and so would Daud. But no-one could know what the Outsider might do; if he was still the Void’s conduit.

Emily was good, was getting better with each race across the city. She'd gotten _good_ at evading the Whalers' hovering patrols — her _entourage_. Befitting an Empress, perhaps, but entirely loathsome to one such as her, who wanted to do things on her own terms, who craved freedom from the constraints of palace life. Corvo knew this about Emily, knew that the Empress was not entirely happy on her throne, accomplished though she was at hiding it. And who would be, tossed into a life she barely understood, losing her mother and her childhood with the strike of a bullet. Who could be _truly_ happy in such a life? But Corvo saw, too, when Emily stole glances at Wyman during council meetings, her smile sweet rather than regal; and Wyman's answering looks, their eyes, too, filled with happiness. Other days, there were walks in the Rose Garden, accompanied by Captain Mayhew. Wyman and Alexi both had found their places at Court, and Court had arranged itself around the peculiarities of yet another Empress who looked protocol right in the eye and told it 'good day.'

That night, Emily's path led her towards the New Mercantile District, following along the broad avenue leading out from the Clocktower and the Estate District. The old district had prided itself on its independence; plying its own trades outside of the capital. After the descent of the Rat Plague, however, most residents had fled — to Baleton, to Potterstead. What had been left behind had been bought by a company that Daud had not been surprised to note to Corvo one night belonged, by a chain of subsidiaries, to the Boyle fortune. The houses and manors had still not been taken down or reconstructed, and so the district remained abandoned; the signs and fraying banners announcing the new venture now seeming mockery rather than jubilant expectation.

The only part of the town that had survived, to coin a phrase, was death — the old cemetery. It was an overgrown garden now more than anything; and many citizens of the main capital did travel here, to contemplate and observe nature as it reclaimed what had been left unattended. Only the gravestones reminded the living of the ones who had gone before, those who had built this town. Many came here to grieve, if not for those who lay interred here, then for others who had been lost; or to simply wander in solitude. The graves offered no reply to anyone's sorrows, and the willows knew nought of earthly concerns, only the wind making them dance and whisper.

Why Emily had led them here, Corvo could not fathom. He exchanged a look with Daud, who shrugged, and Corvo put it down to curiosity or, perhaps more likely, testing the extent of her 'leash.' The Whalers had remained at the Tower, on his orders. Emily would be secure enough tonight.

Corvo would have been content to follow her around the derelict district, Daud at his side watchful and occasionally remarking on the path she took in hushed tones; but he supposed it was just how their lives unfolded when his attention, Emily or Daud's, was caught by something moving through the shadows by the graves. He only saw it out of the corner of his eye and, unsure whether what he thought he'd seen hadn't merely been the wind jostling a few branches, he turned to let the lenses inside his mask do the work. The rows of graves were still obscured from view at present by trees planted along one of the winding paths; and something made him hesitate before descending from the low roof they were perched on to approach on foot. It might have been a hunch, might have been a premonition; he would only understand that it might have saved them from being discovered.

Motioning for Daud to keep an eye on Emily, who had moved towards the chapel at the North end of the cemetery, Corvo blinked across the way, on top of an arch. Still up high enough to avoid detection, Corvo peered into the dark — and stopped short.

The graves had been disturbed, and recently. It had rained heavily until just a few hours ago, and the heaps of soil by the cavernous openings hadn't run to mud since being excavated. Before Corvo could decide whether to blink down to check the graves and coffins, two figures appeared by an unopened grave at the right end of the row; and to see meant to know it. They _appeared_. Out of thin air, yet anything but, and they wore… they wore the uniforms and masks of the Whalers. Dread rose in Corvo like the tide — he looked closer, hoping to catch another look at them using what were undoubtedly Void abilities.

Unwittingly, he watched them move, compared their gait, their gestures before stopping himself. These weren't truly Whalers, at least none of _theirs_ — he would have known them immediately, and he and Daud would have likely felt their presence through the Bond. He was so used to the presence of others intruding upon his connection with the Void that it was as though a sleeping drake curled up in the back of his mind, no more fearful to be woken and jealously guard the power he drew from the dark that lingered there, too. But was it someone he knew, or Daud; could it be? Someone from before? They couldn't both carry the Mark, not even the Outsider had _sense of humour_ enough to send one, let alone two, Marked into the same city in which two already lived; two who had permanently dispatched a third, and a fourth. But if there was one they followed… Corvo barely dared consider who. These were no witches, as much he could tell, but beyond that they could be anyone. Could _serve_ anyone. Who would have drawn the Outsider's eye, Corvo wondered, after all these years of nothing? The shrines were silent to him, to Daud, and even the runes' songs seemed muted. Who was the new favourite? And why would they contrive to dress their lackeys in the uniforms of a garrison of shadows long gone and forgotten?

Was it some old enemy come back to haunt them? Of those, they'd made enough; and the Outsider seemed to have a penchant for those who thought they were taking back what was theirs. And now, whoever it was had recruited their own followers, had trained them, anyhow, and had them stealing human bones. Of problems, Corvo sighed internally, they also had enough. _Quite_ enough. Having noted his absence, both Daud and Emily appeared next to him on top of the archway.

"There's more of them on the other side," Daud murmured so only Corvo could hear.

"And he wouldn't let me near them to keep them from desecrating more graves," Emily muttered on his other side.

"They're too many, at least six we could see," Daud lobbed back over Corvo's head; and despite the situation he was glad to have the mask to hide his smirk. Still, there was one thing he had to ask.

"Did you see them use Blink?"

Daud nodded. "It doesn't look like yours, nor mine." So Daud had feared the same Corvo had, at least for a moment, long enough to make mention of it now. “But they’re wearing our uniforms," he added quietly.

"So we lay down a few stun mines," Emily suggested. "That should take care of eight of them." (Corvo regretted ever telling her how they had taken out an entire coven of witches at Brigmore Manor with half a dozen stun mines and some creative bottle tossing.)

"No," Corvo decided. "We let this play out. They need these bones for _something_ , they're dressed like _… that_ for a reason. I want to see what it is."

Next to him, Emily shifted, obviously unhappy with the decision but, for the moment, willing to listen. Daud leaned closer still to whisper into his ear.

"Put the kids to bed, then head back out?"

Minutely, Corvo nodded.

* * *

As it was, Corvo and Daud had indeed returned to the Tower with Emily and then moved out again on their own. Not in the direction of the cemetery, as the grave robbers were sure to have had concluded their business by then. Instead, they turned to the streets around Wyrmwood Way.

As Royal Protector _before_ , Corvo had always steered clear of these streets; and he knew Daud had, too, even at the height of the Whalers' notoriety and reach. Those who lived here were the ones who crushed bone charms into paste and ate it, hoping to be imbued with the powers granted to anyone who would wear them. Corvo found that it was never quite clear cut who could carry charms — charm carvers had always been around, in a circumspect sort of way, during his childhood in Karnaca, and there had been plenty of people who had worn single charms or simple pieces of whalebone for luck. Only, magic was not an accessory, and would not let itself be made into such. Those bone charms infused with power, with intent, were no good to those of weak disposition. Corvo had seen more than one driven mad by charms and runes they'd found and kept, guarded them against others. Brother had murdered brother for cobbled bits of bone and wire; mother had lost her child to the call of a rune hidden under the pillow, bringing nothing but nightmares and black thoughts. Void, Emily had found one while they'd lived at the Hound Pits pub, and only revealed it to Corvo _after_ telling him of the ghost in her tower, the boy with black eyes that had visited her in her dreams.

Cottings had been found in Wymwood the year before, most of the way to the Void and missing half of her memories of the night. Corvo had let a search squad of the City Watch, led by Galia, comb through the remains of the house that had gone up in flames, but nothing could be salvaged. Paintings, from what they could tell, but the oils hadn't survived the heat. Two more bodies, a man and a woman. Cottings still couldn't tell them whether she had caused the explosion — which seemed likely, as Galia had reported telltale signs of combusted whale oil such as the stuff still encased in the explosive rounds that some officers carried — or how in the Void she'd made it out.

They had found no more answers to that, and of course hadn't gone looking for any way to resolve that particular mystery. They had been saddled with a new one, and more.

There'd been rumours, whispers in the dark, of someone _searching_. Searching for Daud.

Of course, there was always _someone_ looking for the Knife of Dunwall, or so the Hatters claimed, smoking as they hid in the shadows of an alleyway, waiting for an easy victim. Someone holding a grudge, an old enemy… an old friend. Someone who used to run with him, they said. Someone he failed to get rid of properly. Someone he should have killed when he had the chance.

There were always rumours. This time, it felt different.

The Whalers had heard of someone obsessed with Daud, with his powers, who wanted to learn from him how to control others; craved the mysteries of the Bond and its possession. A demon dressed in a black shroud, with red eyes that frightened, and a two-pronged knife.

And now, Rulfio was standing in front of Corvo's desk, making his report.

"Whoever it is, they moved fast. Couldn't have arrived in Dunwall more than a month ago, then started tracking down anyone who would know anything about you," he nodded at Daud.

"Is that the extent of their interest?" Daud asked before Corvo could.

"How likely is that?" Corvo interjected, looking up at Daud from where he was sitting; Daud standing, as ever, just behind his high-backed chair. If they were indeed Marked — they weren't looking for Daud seeking a chat over tea and scones. At best, they sought his secrets — at worst, his blood running down their blade. It was Daud's good fortune, then, that he had only returned from Morley a few days before the night at the cemetery, accompanying Wyman to Caulkenny to speak to their father on semi-official business. Daud's regular presence in Dunwall was a secret kept for over a decade, and beyond Curnow's infrequent warnings for Corvo to 'tell your man to be careful,' which he knew now was worry for a friend rather than griping about a thorn in his side, they had never had cause to put into action any of the dozen or so contingencies Corvo knew Daud had laid the foundations for over the years. Be that a stash of coin and clothes somewhere in the bowels of the Tower, or the letters of marque stashed in Emily's desk, awaiting only the imperial seal. Corvo would see the man he loved pardoned before all the Court, exposing himself as his bonded, ere he let the Order, the Watch, or another deranged Marked haul him from his side.

"There's one thing I found," Rulfio called their attention back to him. "A few names, and a location; either of which might explain the uniforms."

"Where?" Daud asked.

"Slaughterhouse Row, Greaves' old warehouse."

"Who?"

Rulfio's expression turned grave. “Morrigan.”

Beside him, Daud stilled. Corvo looked from Rulfio to him.

"Who's that?"

* * *

Galia Fleet was not a patient woman, though she had learnt endurance. She was not a perfect soldier, though she had learnt to follow orders (most of the time). She was an assassin, though she had learnt to value life. Most of these lessons had been taught to her by a man with scars on his face and soul to match.

The Whalers had been assassins — mercenaries, one might have called them, only they'd never stuck around long enough for a fight. They'd been shadows, and their kills had never been personal; at least in theory. They'd taken contracts, they'd carried them out. Not all had involved cold-blooded murder, but often enough the little _errands_ she'd run for Daud had eventually resulted in someone getting stuck. Still, they'd been nothing personal. In theory. Galia had come to Daud angry, as so many had, with rage carving its way into her bones. That sort of feeling weighed heavily _somewhere_ — Galia wasn't sure anymore she possessed a conscience, or a soul. Perhaps a little bit, after so many years. Years she'd spent looking out for a kid and her idiot fathers; the kid that was now all grown up and ruling an Empire that Galia would have been indifferent to see run to ruin twenty years ago.

Twenty years. Shit, she was old.

She knocked back another drink.

It was her night off duty, and she aimed to spend it alone; well, mostly. In the company of a bottle of Old Dunwall, one was never truly alone.

Daud just had to go and take a side. Wasn't the first time she'd thought it with a sneer, and wouldn't be the last. He'd decided to turn it all on its head by running to warn the Empress of what was coming to her, and then he'd gone and fallen in love with the one man he shouldn't have been itching to have. But he'd gotten him, Corvo just as smitten fourteen years on, and although neither of them had ever said a single bloody word to any of them, they all knew. Back at the Hound Pits pub, all those years ago, there'd been whispers, rumours carefully guarded, and (Galia was sure of it) at least one or two betting pools. When your world was made of blood and misery, you learnt to take the bad with the batshit crazy; and seeing their boss learn how to court the Royal Protector had definitely been that.

Being a Whaler hadn't been all bad. They'd made Dunwall their bitch, to put it bluntly, and it had coughed up blood and coin enough for all of them to have a good time every now and again. Galia had enjoyed tearing into that decaying city's rotting flesh — until, from one day to the next, fucking Daud, of all people, had discovered _something_ worth saving. Of course it had to have been the life of an Empress. After all the shit they'd waded through, Jessamine, Burrows’ plot, and the High Overseer's threats had put Daud on his back.

Galia scoffed into her glass, and wondered why she was still bothering with one. The bottle would be empty before the night was out.

 _Nothing personal._ Daud had drilled that into them, knowing full well the pride that many of them felt. Pride at what they could do with a clench of their fists, pride at knowing that their looming shadows struck fear into the hearts of those who would exploit their wealth and influence, pride at knowing that they were the comeuppance, the judgement, the blade at some fucking corrupt barrister's throat. There were those who wanted to feel the rush. And then there were those who simply liked killing.

Some liked it a little too much.

Most of those had left before Jessamine's body had been dead on the ground.

But some… had stayed, too. Galia had. Billie, much as she disliked to think of anything they had in common. Fucking Lurk, making herself the favourite, the _second_ , the _right hand_ , and then what? She'd gone and fucked it all up; and Daud had let her go. Probably even forgiven her. Sometimes, Galia caught herself thinking that Billie had been right. _Daud's gone soft_ , she found herself muttering under her breath. Had certainly thought it often enough when Daud had come out of the kennels with more scratches than Corvo. 'Let him get close?' she'd wanted to ask then. 'Be careful, boss,' she'd wanted to tell him, 'lest he takes what he shouldn't.' Of course, it had long been too late by then; and Attano hadn't even known it. She remembered, too, the look on Corvo's face after Brigmore. Like a man who'd finally lost what he’d had left and hadn't known he could yet lose more. She'd hated him, then, and held onto it for long enough to get it out of her system, to make her peace with Daud and the Void and the way _love_ fucked everything and screwed your head on wrong. Galia Fleet had never been in love, had never wanted to be, but she was neither blind nor a fool.

At least some of the novices hadn't seen too much killing yet by 1837. But her, Billie, Thomas, Rinaldo, Rulfio… Daud had saved them from death and worse, they all knew, but the fact was that in saving them he'd fucked them up for life; and Galia knew he knew it. Knew it was why he'd worked so hard during and after the Empress job, why he'd been willing to leave Dunwall behind to see them all out — to cut them loose. For their own good. She supposed he thought that the best he could do was to try and show them that it wasn't too late for redemption — and that their deeds were on him, that _he_ had done this to them. He wanted to give them a choice, after so long of choosing only between two shit options that would both see them dead. And yet, after Brigmore, they'd stayed. Not for reasons high, mighty, and noble. Well, perhaps some of them. Thomas, that daft shit, had stayed out of some obscure fucking goodness of his heart, and Void knew where he'd dredged that up. The rest of them — fear. Loyalty, yes, that too. Love, perhaps, for some of them; those for whom Daud had been more of a father than anyone else had ever cared to be.

Daud had had a choice when he'd decided to make his living as an assassin, but even he hadn't been free of fear. When he'd disappeared, those that stayed had settled into being part of the City Watch, and into Dunwall, for all that it chafed.

Galia pushed the glass away and took a swig straight from the bottle.

It was good, and stable, and being bonded to Corvo, as Galia had been for a time, had actually given her some sense of calm. Less guilt coming down the Bond, she guessed. He'd proven himself, in giving them a life to live if they wanted it, in bringing Daud back to their world and nearly losing himself in the process. Emily had still been so young then, and they'd adored her because apparently the trademark Attano puppy eyes worked on Void-damned everyone. They had yet to learn to live with the things they'd done, but they'd learnt how to live with themselves. They had night terrors. They had things they couldn't do anymore. Places they no longer went.

Once, they'd been Whalers. Now, they were guards — not pacifists. Daud and Corvo had the luxury of avoiding collateral damage; officers of the Watch did not. In altercations with the gangs, in rooting out a nest of smugglers, they were expected to know their way around a fight. Galia refused to let her hands shake when she went to bed at night after cleaning her pistol and wiping blood off her sword, watching the cloth run red.

There'd been a first time, and one day there'd be a last. Until then, there was always just the next.

Morrigan had been one of theirs once. One of those who liked the game; liked it too much. He'd become obsessed with seeking the Outsider's Mark for himself — not like Lurk had been, wanting it for ambition and to be more like Daud. Morrigan had wanted power for the sake of it, not as a means to an end. At least the Void had always just been that to Daud. Galia wondered if that was why she'd have followed him to the ends of the world.

Morrigan would have followed no-one but himself, and so Daud had cast him out — had broken the Arcane Bond, deliberately and at great cost to himself. It'd messed him up for weeks, much as he tried to pretend it hadn't. And now, that asshole was back. It could have been no accident that whoever it was who was so obsessed with Daud and the Void had chosen him to be their first recruit. She wondered. If she'd left, rage hot and cold inside her, if she'd broken any connection left after Daud had gone to the Void… fuck knew where she would've ended up. Perhaps in just the place someone like this would have come looking for her, offering to settle the score. If she'd left, would she have ever even known of Daud's return?

 _If_. The word alone made her head hurt. So she drank some more. It was her night off, after all.

* * *

"Last time you needed a boat ride to Brigmore, one of you didn't come back," Lizzy Stride pointed out the obvious and unwelcome as she joined Corvo and Daud at the railing.

"Last time, we had to hide below deck for half the trip," Daud shot back, chancing a glance at Corvo, who was likely smirking behind his mask but stayed silent.

"This time, you're in infinitely better company," a third voice chimed in from Corvo's other side. Leaning forward a little, Daud was met with the smug face of one Mister Slackjaw — pardon: Azariah Fillmore.

Reports of unusual activity at the Brigmore estate had reached them only days after Rulfio's tipoff about Slaughterhouse Row and Greaves Auxiliary. Knowing that they had little time lose, Daud had suggested to Corvo to head out to Brigmore themselves, and to send a small team to Slaughterhouse Row. Corvo had agreed, seeing the need for urgency as well as he did, and together they had settled on dispatching Galia and Rinaldo. All through their Watch training and the relative comforts of Tower life, they had retained their talent for stealth that had distinguished them when they were Whalers. Galia knew the area around Slaughterhouse Row well, having grown up there — having once saved Rinaldo's life in a skirmish with Overseers there, too, as she never tired of reminding him. If their new _friend_ was truly holed up there, Galia and Rinaldo would find out. And when better than when no-one was expected to be home? Daud did not expect that Morrigan's new boss would be at Brigmore that night, either; but if they could capture just _one_ , they would be so much closer to discovering who it was.

As it was, the Undine — still Lizzy's ship, but in a much better state of repair than last time he'd seen it — was swarming that night with former Whalers, current Dead Eels, and members of the Bottle Street Gang. Slackjaw might be a respectable businessman now, but that did not change the unalienable truth that old habits died very, very hard. The Distillery was officially under operation by Azariah Fillmore, purveyor of exotic liquors. But he and his men still dabbled in their old pursuits; the only concession to his friendship with Corvo that they largely stayed out of the way of the City Watch. Their territory barely reached Holger Square these days, but Slackjaw's presence and reputation alone kept the other gangs in check, if nothing else. And in cases such as these, Slackjaw seemed happy to lend a hand whenever Corvo asked. If Daud didn't know better, he'd have suspected Slackjaw to be a little sweet on Corvo — not that one could fault him; but where was Daud's bouquet of roses for saving the Urchin Prince from Granny Rags?

"One question I've got left," said Slackjaw into the quiet. "Why aren't they coming over the river, same as us?"

Neither Corvo nor Daud quite knew the answer to that.

*

"You know, sometimes I hate being right."

Corvo didn't have to lift his mask for Daud to know exactly what kind of teasing expression he was sporting. "Fourteen years of arguing with you tell me differently.”

"When do we argue," Daud returned, veering dangerously between sarcasm and earnest question. As often as he'd feared, in the beginning, that Corvo would one day get so sick of him that he'd throw him out of the Tower clad in only his small clothes, Daud was secure enough now in the depth of their affection to sneer at couples who seemed to be able to do nought but scrabble at the littlest things. He'd met enough of those over the years, on missions and spying through all sorts of windows; and the longer it went on, the less he understood any of them.

"Remember the scones?" Corvo asked.

"Hettie made them; I couldn't let you have the last one," Daud took no quarter; not on such things.

To their left, Thomas coughed politely.

Remembering where they were, Daud shut his mouth with a click. He and Corvo had become old hands at ‘embarrassing the children,’ as Corvo liked to put it. That they would be caught out doing so here, now, rather spoke to a level of complacency that Daud should not like to contemplate. Certainly not now.

"Let's see, gentlemen. The landscape is bones," Slackjaw said as he appeared next to them, returned from giving final instructions to his men. "My boys are in position, Corvo. It's up to the grave robbers now, if some old witches' bones is indeed what they seek."

Witches' bones. That part of the tipoff had set Daud's teeth on edge even worse than the prospect of returning to Brigmore at all. Anyone with an interest in a witch's anything, let alone someone _marked_ , was someone Daud would rather see hang or be run out of his city.

Corvo steadily touched his arm, the lenses in his mask shifting with a soft click. "Someone's coming."

* * *

"Never thought I'd ever wear this again," Rinaldo murmured when they were done putting on the spare Whalers' uniforms they'd found in storage crates; waiting for more recruits. He was holding the mask in his hands, staring down at it as though the lenses were eyes of their own, as though there was getting a word out of them if he just fucking _looked_ hard enough.

"Wonder if someone took it off a body," Galia returned as she tightened the belt around her waist, then the bandola over her chest. Rinaldo's eyes met hers, uncertain. "Where else would they have gotten them?" They didn't _make_ these anymore. Whose dead Whaler's pelt was she wearing, she wondered. Void, she wished she were drunk.

Although a trip to Brigmore Manor would likely involve all members of the small gang the new boss in town had recruited, two sentries had stayed behind to guard the hideout. Ordinarily, they now either be dead or at least sleeping, stuffed into a supply closet with just enough air to last the night. But as it was, they'd left them in peace, and would sneak along when the rest of the party returned — hopefully, no-one would pay too much attention to two additional recruits. They were used to moving in spaces without quite knowing where everything was; and an abandoned auxiliary slaughterhouse was not much in the way of a maze.

*

It turned out that they didn't have to wait that long for the grave robbers to return; and by the time they did, Galia and Rinaldo had discreetly rifled through every bunk, locker, storage crate, and desk they could find. There was little in the way of personal effects. This was a base, but it hadn't been established for long, and many of the gang's members still seemed to live elsewhere. No-one wanted to live on Slaughterhouse Row, especially with the whale oil industry in decline. Emily's whale oil decree had spelt its demise fourteen years ago, and while there were probably more whales out in the Ocean now than there would have been otherwise, the concern regarding power technologies and resources grew. Galia didn't think about it much — it wasn't her problem, she'd say; and perplexingly, she found she had faith. In Emily, in her council (as long as Ames was on it, anyway, that harridan), and Corvo's determination to see his daughter succeed.

Once more she looked around the room — the most furnished in the entire warehouse even if it was tucked away into the basement; with a cot and shelves and a desk and actual _things_ a person might own. Clothes, for one thing. The most disgusting bone charm workshop she had ever seen, for another. Whalebone could stink up a room for days, she had seen enough carvers' places up close to know. But this… these charms were made from _human bones_. Whoever was leading this gang hadn't sent their men robbing graves for a ritual, as they'd originally assumed; or at least not only that.

She picked up one of the charms, weighed in her hand. Even now, freshly assembled, it was crumbling at her touch, the markings — witches' writing, runes she recognised, some she didn't — looked more like they'd been scorched into the bone rather than carved; the edges of the charms blackened and cracking. She didn't have the time to try and feel what the charm might be able to do, but it made her feel lighter, somehow, as though she might soar. Something to do with agility, perhaps? Possibly. Galia hesitated, but then decided to keep it, tucking it into an empty ammo pouch. There were more charms with the same markings, a regular assembly line. Hopefully one gone missing wouldn't immediately be noticed. What else was there — maps, showing the entire city. Galia flipped through them and got stuck on one in particular: the Estate District and, smack bang in the middle, the Boyle estate. The Month of Darkness was upon them, and with it the annual masquerade ball. She contemplated taking one of the maps, but opted for memorising the placements of markers instead, she had always been handy at that. And besides, Corvo being Corvo, he had enough maps of the place itself. She turned, giving the room another sweeping glance, and something tucked into the corner behind the cot caught her eye, wrapped in a large cloth. She stepped closer and gingerly lifted one of the corners of the sheet. A large frame, but empty save for wooden backing. For a painting, she wondered. Or a mirror? It was possible, with the ornate carvings along the frame. Galia put the covering back as she'd found it and moved away lest she disturb anything atop the makeshift bed.

This room, then, had to be the one used by the gang's leader. There was a strange smell in the air, too. It tasted… cold. Bitter, almost metallic, not quite like blood and yet too much like it. She didn't like this room. She had a feeling she would not like the person it belonged to.

She'd be right.

"Fleet," she heard Rinaldo hiss from the corridor.

She slipped out of the room and together they transversed up high to wait for the right time to join the group unseen. The moment arrived quickly enough, and it was simple enough to tell that the trap Corvo and Daud had laid at Brigmore Manor had sprung — the numbers that had been reported to Rulfio just the week before had been greatly reduced, if this was truly everyone that had returned. Of those that remained, only about a dozen, not a few seemed shaken. Jittery; but Galia could not decide if from fear or because of the effects of the bonecharms she saw woven into their jerkins. She turned her attention to their leader.

What she saw settled and disturbed Galia in equal measure. On the one hand: whatever his name, the strange figure leading these 'new Whalers' was, indeed, a man, not a spectre. He might try to hide it, but he still moved like one. On the other hand: whoever — whatever — this person was, he was no longer entirely human; and perhaps no longer human enough to call himself that at all. The stench of what she'd noted in his room clung to him like an omen, Galia didn't even have to get close to tell. And then there were his robes, which weren't robes at all. Galia had only seen them once or twice, but she was sure: greatcoats, the kind Tyvian soldiers wore. Soldiers — or prison guards, Galia's mind supplied. A wide-brimmed hat overshadowed his face, which was covered with a wide scarf and _goggles_ with red glasses. Again, a reminder of Tyvia. She had only ever heard tales of _freedom_. Being sentenced to the ice wastes of Utyrka… stories, nothing more. No-one ever lived to tell the tale to an outsider. Surely, he couldn't have _escaped_?

"You," a rasping voice suddenly addressed her; and it seemed to come within the folds of the cloak rather than from a mouth. Thus singled out, she stepped closer, falling back easily — too easily — into the stance she'd adopted whenever accepting orders from Daud. She was an officer of the Watch now, she _gave_ the orders. But this was ingrained in her, and she knew it. Even as this man stood before her and couldn't have been more unlike Daud, even at his worst, if he'd tried. As she'd always practised, she kept her eyes on a spot just above the man's shoulder. Behind the Whaler mask, he wouldn't be able to tell, even if Galia had sometimes thought Daud could; but she found it easier not to look people in the eye.

"Look at me," the man rasped now, and she stilled. Had a movement of her head given her away? She had no time to wonder; instead she did as she was bid, unwilling to try and call him on his bluff. Not in this situation, not with Rinaldo loitering to back her up if needed.

So she looked, into deep red eyes — goggles, to be precise. She very nearly gasped but restrained herself just in time. Something seemed to reach into her, reach for the Void inside her, touched the same places it had settled into the marrow of her bones. Hypnosis, bonecharms, magic, it was no matter; Galia felt the same gut-deep tug she still did whenever she used Transversal, or Blink. She'd remained bonded to Corvo, not for preference but for the ease of the connection and seeing no necessity to break it. The magic still tore at her even as it settled her. During those months after Brigmore… she'd not felt quite herself without it. And now, those red eyes were calling out, and the Void answered. She should step back. She couldn't.

"Boss," she responded, having heard others of the group refer to him in kind as they came in, trying not to think about how strange her own voice sounded to her, distorted through the breathing apparatus of the mask.

"Help Morrigan place the bones in the basement. We've suffered losses tonight, but they will not hinder us in the deliverance of our plans."

Galia nodded. There wasn't much else she could do.

Besides hoping that Morrigan was too far up his own ass to recognise her — from the bad old days.

* * *

"And your informant is sure that this is where they mean to attack?" Yul asked, doubt still lingering. Corvo didn't blame him, it sounded fantastical. "The Boyles' Masquerade Ball? I grant you, it sounds plausible, but at the same time…"

"The Boyles aren't the Brimsleys," Jameson interjected. Coincidentally, it was the same thing Daud had said when Galia and Rinaldo had returned from Slaughterhouse Row. It wasn't only Galia's hunch, however, that they were basing this on, but the testimony of one of the would-be Whalers they had arrested at Brigmore, with Slackjaw's help. The fight had been brutal, but short-lived, and in the end Corvo's superior experience in using his powers won out. They hadn't seen him, but couldn't be sure that the 'boss' wasn't watching; and so only Corvo had used his Void abilities to fight. The Whalers had wrapped things up the old-fashioned way — and Daud had remained in the shadows. If the gang's leader was indeed obsessed with him, it wouldn't do to show their hand too early in the game.

"What sort of artefact would they possess?" Emily chimed in as well, but sounding less skeptical than her friend and advisor.

"The Boyle family has reach rivalling yours," Corvo reminded her, "and in some way, superseding it. If any family in Dunwall possesses genuine heretical artefacts not even for profit but for _fun_ , it's them. Ichabod guards his family's secrets well, but not quite well enough; and some of their past sins from the time of the Rat Plague are sure to catch up with them eventually." Corvo didn't, of course, mean the Plague specifically — he was referring to Esma and her ill-fated affair with Hiram Burrows. She'd paid for it with her family's coin, and then with her life.

"Do you require my Overseers' assistance, then?" Yul interjected. "We can have Music Boxes requisitioned from the armouries, if need be. If these people truly are touched by the Void, by the Outsider…"

Corvo had feared that Yul would offer such a thing — hadn't feared his willingness to help, far from it. The High Overseer had become an ally, a friend, even if there were still secrets Corvo kept from him that would forever keep them a world apart. But Corvo could not risk sending in Overseers carrying the Ancient Music: its effects would render everyone weak and disoriented at best, but might glance off the new Whalers' skins like water off a duck's back. The shrines were still silent, even though Corvo had — multiple times — done as good as requesting an audience with the Outsider through them. He had never responded, neither in Corvo's dreams nor in Daud's; and both felt that, had He marked someone new, He would not hesitate to laugh at them about it. Corvo resolutely pushed any notion of worry out of his mind. It had been years without a word, without so much as a whisper from the Void; and while he knew he ought to be glad, some part of him could not quite help wondering. Was the Outsider alright?

A laughable question. One he asked nonetheless; though not of Daud. It was… a sore subject still.

"We'd be glad for your Overseers' help, High Overseer, though perhaps it will take too long and be too cumbersome to requisition the Music Boxes," Emily answered before Corvo could. "We have to ready a plan of either defence or attack within the week to prepare, and to try and convince Lady Boyle to admit you and your men at the ball in the first place. If the grave robbers have these powers, we will simply have to hope to outnumber them."

"Your Highness," Khulan responded with a deferential nod but with the worried tone Corvo knew spelt respectful disagreement. "Dunwall has not seen a congregation of powered individuals in more than a decade. Many among the ranks of the Order are too young to have encountered them in those days. Perhaps, in the spirit of reassurance…"

"Reassurance of your men and ours, and the ill ease of everyone else," Emily reminded him, firmly but kindly as was her way. "I have considered issuing a lockdown of the city, Yul," she spoke frankly, surprising even Corvo. She had not discussed this with _him_. "And my advisors have warned me that this could cause a panic that might doom the entire venture. This is best done quietly, and doing our best to contain the situation."

Ah, Corvo thought. She'd discussed it with Daud, then. He held in a smirk — he'd have come to the same conclusion as Daud, but Emily knew which questions to ask of each of them to receive the answer she liked best. In most cases, at least.

"Your Majesty," Yul agreed pleasantly, if not quite at peace with the situation. But he'd help, and that was the important part.

* * *

Another thing that Emily knew how — and who — to ask was the matter of… _assisting_ Corvo and Daud in their endeavours. They had allowed her to prove her training in gallivanting across the rooftops at night; but any disturbance or fight she'd come across so far had been 'resolved' by the Whalers who were with her that night. Upon itching to interfere one night, Rulfio had appeared next to her, quietly murmuring that Corvo and Daud would have his head if he let her. Emily balked at being 'let' to do anything, but as she watched Galia expertly take a Hatter into a headlock and give him the roughing up of a lifetime, she agreed that perhaps they didn't need her help. She'd phrased it as such, with a haughtily drawn brow, and Rulfio had chuckled before descending to join the fray himself.

Still, she'd known then that there would come a time when she would _have_ to get her hands dirty rather than watching from the sidelines. Corvo and Daud knew it, too.

This, then, was not yet such an occasion; but she could _help_. And, frankly, she was sick of deferring to Court's rules on everything that looked vaguely like a good time. The Empress was not supposed to join the Fugue Feast, was not supposed to attend the Masquerade — in short, was expected to sit up high in her Tower and watch everyone else finding pleasure from afar.

But then, _this_ wasn't entirely about pleasure, no matter that something much like excitement set Emily's gut to kick. Corvo and Daud had conceded to her demands to join them on this mission only because they knew that, otherwise, Emily would either find ways of eluding Wyman and Alexi or simply convince them to come along and sneak into the party in disguise. As it was, she'd still be in disguise, and so would they. Emily had commissioned a black sparrow dress and mask — the black sparrow had been her mother's favourite, and she'd had it discreetly embroidered on a few of her suits. Wyman and Alexi had chosen matching but less ornate costumes, Alexi with a nearly opaque veil that would serve to hide her striking red hair. Emily mourned watching her braid it some mornings, even as Wyman helped her with her own tangled, heavy curls. The severe style Emily wore it in at Court was only one of the masks she wore.

Emily remembered having to learn to dance and walk in high-heeled boots — and hating every second of it. She knew how to be graceful when fighting off three Whalers at once, but dancing… she'd been fifteen or sixteen when her lessons began, and she'd practised finding her feet on the shoes chosen for her first stately banquet that would involve a dance with her father (or, in his absence, the Royal Protector, only in this case one's absence was the other's substitute) in Corvo's chambers a few nights, pacing up and down until she had the hang of it — and even then, Daud had had to reach for the Void to catch her a few times, as he invariably had, much to Corvo's amusement and her own annoyance.

"You could just let me fall," she'd told him when he'd set her right on her feet again, "you usually do."

"That's training. This," he'd pointed at her shoes, "is torture."

This party, at least, was promising more than dull conversation and strict protocol.

Emily stepped up behind Alexi, who was smoothing out the length of her skirt in the mirror, and pressed a kiss to her neck underneath her veil. Wyman was watching them from the door, resplendent in their own robes. Alexi blushed still, no matter how many times Emily had done this by now; but her eyes remained serious.

"Are you sure about this, Em?"

"With you and Wyman there, I have no reason not to be," Emily said, reaching for her mask.

* * *

The Boyle family's annual Masquerade Ball was the undisputed highlight of the season, and had been for decades — not even the Rat Plague could change that. It felt so long ago that Corvo and Daud had broken in that night (well, Daud had broken in, Corvo had waltzed in right through the front door, hidden behind his mask); and, well, it had been long ago. Fourteen years, Esma Boyle had now been missing, presumed dead — that was the official story. A maid had found her, dead, on her bed the night of the party, and no-one had been told. Corvo had taken care of Lord Brisby, waiting in the cellar in a Void-damned boat like the fool he'd been, with another sleep dart and opened the gate to let him drift out into the sewers leading away from the estate; and a few weeks after the party, reports had reached them that Brisby had dissolved his Dunwall estate and moved to Morley quite abruptly. The sting of unrequited love, the rumours had gone. They couldn't have known how right they were; and that the object of his abhorrent affections had been murdered rather than handed over to him.

After all these years, Corvo still wished they could have found a different solution to Esma's situation. Her sisters, Lydia and Waverly, had entered a state of mourning for a year after that night; over, of course, a year later on the dot, when the Plague had been cured and it had been time for another ball to lift the city's spirits. Lydia had never quite been the same again, however, becoming a shut-in, rarely seen even in the company of her sister. Waverly, for her part, had only grown more suspicious of anyone new attempting to enter the circle of Dunwall nobility she had positioned herself at the centre of. But still, the Ball had to be held, in the middle of the year, during the darkest night of all. On that night, the fireworks and balloons would illuminate the Month of Darkness and weaken its hold on the city and its people. Those with invitations, anyhow.

Yul had kept his word and offered Waverly the Abbey's protection, and it wouldn't be the first time she'd accepted it, albeit this time minus the presence of Warfare Overseers armed with Music Boxes. Of course, Waverly was more concerned with the Crown Killer singling out one of her family as their next victim than any loose heretics, but there was no need to correct her assumptions. (Especially as they were not unfounded — the Boyles, particularly Waverly's son Ichabod, were not the staunchest supporters of the Kaldwin family.)

Upon entering the lavish foyer, Corvo felt remembered dread and guilt, but there was something else. Something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Emily: BUT I WANNA HELP. — Corvo & Daud: EM PLS NO  
> b) Galia: FUCK. Fuckity fucking — I'm serious, Galia swears more just in this chapter than anyone's done in this entire series so far.  
> c) I LOVE GALIA.  
> d) Yes, Morrigan is the Whaler Daud talked about in Part 3, when telling Corvo that he does know how to end the Arcane Bond deliberately.  
> e) CLIFFHANGERRRR.


	7. Chapter Six — Begin your letter to the one who’s coming next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zhukov, the Mirror, and the Knife. Also: Decisions must be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final chapter of Part 4! I decided to post a little early because it's been a bit of a week, and we all deserve something nice. Well, and I deserve to get yelled at for cliffhanger-ing, I s'pose.
> 
> I do have a sneak peek for Part 5 done and ready — how soon I post that depends entirely on you ;P  
> Stories of the Street is gonna be LONG, mind you, so I'll need a bit of time to get far enough to start posting. I'm aiming at late August/early September, though. I hope you've enjoyed this bridge between the first and the second game in this AU; and I hope to see you all again for Dishonored 2, AU Edition. As ever, thank you all so much for your kudos and comments!! <3
> 
> Ta for now!  
> xoxo,  
> Andrea
> 
> Oh, and uh — warning for naughty times and praise kink, I guess.
> 
> Soundtrack: [Glitter and Gold, by Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GySIToHCPac&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN&index=62&t=0s). End credits: [spoilers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyqkhSk5GM8&index=62&list=PLY1Uwm5rZ4zOVXyBOsEZlCATCUdaVFWrN).

And remember, when the tides are lowest, the truth will be revealed.

From [The Exquisite Tallboy](http://dishonored.wikia.com/wiki/The_Exquisite_Tallboy)

* * *

> **_  
> DUNWALL COURIER_ **
> 
> _16_ _ th _ _Day, Month of Darkness, 1851_
> 
> **_Shocking revelations at the Masquerade_ **
> 
> _At the annual ball held at the Boyle Estate, Dunwall was once more shaken to the core by inexplicable and, dare we suggest it, supernatural phenomena. Sources that were present at the event have reported that a masked man, commanding a gang of criminals dressed exactly like the Whalers led by the assassin Daud of years long past, abducted both Lydia Boyle and none other than the Empress Emily Kaldwin herself, under the very eyes of her father, Corvo Attano. It is said that the masked man was after an artefact in the possession of the Boyle sisters; two of them remaining since their sister Esma's tragic disappearance fourteen years ago._
> 
> **_Identity of the Gang's Leader Remains Mystery_ **
> 
> _There is no official word on the night's events in question from Dunwall Tower — only that the Empress did, of course, not attend the ball, as it would have violated Court etiquette for her to do so. The palace suggested that the criminals may have hired a lookalike to impersonate her and cause a diversion to cover up the identity of the intended victim; implying that the true target of the operation was Lydia Boyle. The Royal Protector conceded to having been present at the party, having bartered for an invitation following reports that the event may be the target of an attack. Wishing to lend a hand, the Royal Protector made his appearance solely for security purposes, a spokesperson for the Empress, Jameson Curnow, told this newspaper. Curnow (nephew to Captain of the Watch Geoff Curnow) would make no statement on whether Attano was involved in any rescue attempts or the dissolution of the gang, many of which have been reported to be in custody in Coldridge Prison._
> 
> **_The Return of Daud?_ **
> 
> _Many do, of course, speculate that the masked man was indeed the Knife of Dunwall himself, returned to take revenge on the city. The assassin Daud was believed to have been exiled or killed, with conflicting and unconfirmed reports of sightings all over the Isles during the past decade. Some also believe he might not have been banished but leashed, captured and tortured into working for Attano and the Empress — and might now be doing their bidding as the infamous Crown Killer. Speculation abounds, dear reader, but this newspaper will not rest until at least some of these mysteries have been solved._

* * *

**TWO DAYS EARLIER**

Perhaps it could have been the first line of a bad joke — a bear, a wolf, and a black sparrow walked into a ballroom.

Convincing Daud to join him in costume should have been the hardest task of all; and it _had_ been difficult. But if Corvo thought that this was the tallest obstacle to clear in bringing this whole affair to an end, he would find himself sorely mistaken.

As it was, they had been welcomed somewhat affably by their hostess; the now elderly Lady Waverly Boyle even going so far as to call the presence of the Lord Protector 'quite an honour.' Corvo believed she was not naive enough not to know he had some connection to the events that had transpired on that night fourteen years ago. At least the identity of the man beside him seemed wholly a mystery to her, if the infrequent glances she threw the wolf's way were any indication. Whether these glances were born of suspicion or curiosity, he could not say. He was not about to ask.

Emily would arrive with the courtiers, an invitation procured for her that would obscure her and her escorts' identities. Wyman had of course been expected to join their wife on this assignment, but Alexi's intention to participate had been a surprise to Corvo — then again, he knew the Captain would do anything to keep Emily (and Wyman) safe. Corvo wondered, sometimes. He knew Daud's theory on their connection; but Emily had not _told_ them anything, and thus Corvo refused to speculate. When he watched as the Black Sparrow took her partner's proffered arm and then her second escort's _hand_ , he supposed he needn't ask, anyhow.

Having Waverly's blessing amounted to very little, of course, when it was Lydia's sudden appearance that upset the entire plan. And her alone, they could have handled. It was the masked man's sudden appearance that they found difficult to account for. There were Whalers posted on every corner of the grounds, the sewer entrance was sealed off and guarded; something that Corvo had recommended to Lady Boyle with grim, hidden amusement. They had done a sweep of the entire estate, top to bottom — including the abandoned wing where Lydia still lived, despite reports to the contrary. There was no way for the man to sneak inside — no way except magic.

The man's name… was Zhukov.

He had indeed abducted Lydia Boyle, only to leave behind her mangled remains in the cellar of the manor.

He had indeed abducted the Black Sparrow.

They had been prepared for a fight; and when his mercenaries had invaded the ballroom to take the party's guests hostage, they had the situation under control. At first. The mercs had perhaps expected little resistance from people dressed in such fine livery; and though they had rallied well when their blades were struck away by a bear and a wolf, they had found themselves in deeper waters when a black sparrow and her nightingale drew rapiers from beneath their dresses. And worse, as they had shown to know exactly how to fight someone who tried to disorient them by transversing just before they chose to strike. Training with Whalers for years had taught Emily and Alexi infinite patience. Unfortunately, that still did not change the fact that while the mercenaries were free to use their powers, Corvo, Daud and their agents could not afford to do so in front of witnesses, putting them on the back foot even as they held their ground against the onslaught.

Of course, all preparation for a fight was useless when innocent lives were threatened and the Empress of the Isles decided that causing a scandal by removing her own mask was preferable to letting anyone suffer for her foolishness. Corvo's only comfort — cold though it was — were Alexi and Daud's own cries and curses as Emily looked deep into Zhukov's red goggles and fainted on the spot. Lydia, holding a knife to her own sister's neck, laughed bitterly.

How Zhukov had known who she was under her mask was a secret he would take with him into the grave, and Corvo had little incentive to search for him in the Void to ask him. And once he had her, there was little Corvo and Daud could do — would do — to turn the situation around while Emily's life was in immediate danger.

So instead, they had been forced to watch as they disappeared, leaving them alone with their hostage takers. Dressed like Whalers, they raised whispers of Daud around the room, of the Knife of Dunwall. If only Dunwall's courtiers had any idea that it was the Knife of Dunwall who'd put himself between them and the assassins.

Assassins that now saw the error of their ways as the Knife bore down upon them. It was Daud, then, who helped Waverly up from her prone position on the marble floor, and asked her to show him the way to the hidden vault.

* * *

When Emily awoke, it was to the dirt and grime of an abandoned factory — Greaves', she'd bet. Morrigan was leaning over her.

"Where is Lydia Boyle?" were the first words out of her mouth, and Morrigan grinned. He laid a hand on one of the bone charms attached to his coat, blackened around the edges, acrid-smelling smoke curling around it in tendrils.

"She served her purpose," he told her, and Emily felt sick. She had not wanted to believe Galia and Rinaldo's report at first; that Zhukov was carving charms from human bones. It seemed too gruesome, for all that Emily knew the things people were willing to do to themselves and others in the pursuit of magic, of the Void. Her own curiosity about Corvo and Daud's powers and their origin sat heavy in her stomach when she thought of it.

Now, however, she was distracted by Zhukov stepping up to her on her other side, the same dizziness as earlier nearly overcoming her when her gaze was drawn to the red goggles he wore. What was it he did to her? Hypnosis? Magic of the will? Could he see into her mind? All other thoughts fled as she felt herself tip into the swirling Void, and she _saw_.

She saw herself, she saw Corvo. She was laughing, the same laughter she'd heard at the party, just for a moment, before passing out; and she would have liked to say it sounded nothing like her. It was a hollow laugh, hollow and sadistic. The mist cleared, and suddenly she knew what was raising the hysteria. Corvo and Daud, standing at the bottom of the dais leading up to her throne, their blades raised and running red with blood, the bodies of slain courtiers at their feet; slaughtered for the Empress' amusement. Then, the scene changed, and they were no longer standing before her, protecting her; their heads were cast on spikes behind her throne, their eyes empty glass. Emily reared back, or wanted to, but couldn't move. She saw herself on the throne, dressed in black, as if in mourning. The black sparrow, whose fathers had betrayed her, and paid dearly for it.

That reminder of what had happened that night brought her back to the present, and she just about managed to tear herself away from the spell.

"What are you," she gasped, then snarled in rage and pain when Morrigan sunk his gloved hand into her unbound hair, pulling her head back and exposing her neck. "If you were allowed to kill me, you'd have done it already," she bit out at him before he could even raise his sword to threaten her.

"Silence," the man — Zhukov — commanded. Then he sent Morrigan outside to guard the entrance to the basement. The erstwhile Whaler complied, and left. Zhukov turned again to her. "Observe."

Emily had never witnessed an occult ritual; had never even been allowed to watch when Corvo or Daud conducted rune rituals to fortify their powers. So she stared in fascinated horror as Zhukov revealed what he had prepared — and what, precisely, he had come to steal from the Boyle vault. Was that… the jawbone of a giant _whale_?

"A leviathan," Zhukov breathed when he followed her widening gaze. "The Deep Watcher sleeps until it's raised, and now will sleep forever."

Emily had heard the stories, of course, of a man trapped at the ground of the Ocean in a loose bathysphere, of the whalers trying to save him, of the ship nearly destroyed in toiling with its quarry.

So the stories had been true.

She had no more time to think about it when Zhukov began the ritual. And when it was done, Emily was staring into her own reflection, cast in a mirror, the surface black as she only imagined the Void to be.

"And what do you want with me?" she asked.

"You, my dear girl, are the key."

***

Corvo and Daud had shed their costumes upon leaving Boyle Manor, Corvo exchanging the bear mask for another, much older. One that suited him much better. He tried not to think on it. Daud, however, had held onto his, but didn't put it back on as they entered the slaughterhouse. Taking out one so-called Whaler one by one, they made their way deeper down from the top of the building, until they got to the basement.

There was only one guarding it. Daud put his mask back on.

It had been Daud who had slowly stepped up to Morrigan, to the one he knew; the one he'd cast out. Corvo waited in the shadows, watching.

"Found a new master, have you," he'd rumbled once he was close enough, just loud enough for Corvo to hear. To the untrained eye, the former Whaler didn't betray any outward reaction, but Corvo saw the shift of tension in his shoulders. He knew that voice behind the mask of the wolf. Any Whaler would.

With a cry, the mercenary had raised his blade against the Big Knife.

It would prove to be his undoing, left bleeding — dying — on the dirty floor.

His was the first blood Daud's blade had drawn in more than a decade — punishment. For past crimes, for whom he had decided to follow. For putting a blade to Emily's throat.

***

"The key to what?" Urgency crept into Emily's voice, urgency and fear.

"To my past," he rasped. He waved his hand, and the mirror showed her what he meant.

The past: her mother, her life, her death; the ones responsible. Burrows. The future: chaos, the Plague, suffering and death. Zhukov, as he had once been, standing beneath a Tyvian banner. Her mother, alive and tormented, her father — Royal Protector become Executioner, Torturer; serving not love but insanity.

Emily remembered something else she'd heard about him.

"And what do you want with Daud?" she asked. "The old assassin is gone, and yet you've taken his former men and fashioned them into Whalers once again. Why?"

"Daud." Zhukov hummed. "I must admit to some surprise when I realise that it wasn't the Knife of Dunwall that killed your mother; but it isn't this that makes him… interesting to me." He circled her chair to stand behind her, then bowed to speak into her ear. "He went into the Void, and he came out of it with not a scratch. He walked the abyss and emerged more than he was. What has he done for the Outsider to be granted such favour? That is the answer I seek from him; and I know your circumstances will draw him to me. I know he helped you and your family escape. I know that your Lord Protector is a heretic because of _him_."

"Favour?" Emily echoed his remark, ignoring what else he claimed to know. "From what I hear my _father_ speak, all he calls the Outsider is a black-eyed bastard. Surely, He does not grant _favours_. Especially to one such as Daud."

"Clever, Empress," Zhukov hummed again. "To hide behind the simple meaning of your words and admit to enough of the truth without giving away all of it."

"Daud did help us escape," she bartered for time, "but that was fourteen years ago. He's long gone."

"And still you are lying to me," Zhukov circled back round again so as to see her face. "But no matter. It is of no consequence where he is _now_. What _matters_ is where he was fourteen years ago, where your mother was. She had Burrows turn me, and when she died and Burrows did not become Lord Regent as he'd planned, there was no-one I could turn to when the High Judges became suspicious of my position. By the time your Royal Protector sent an agent, it was too late — I had to kill them, and still the Judges captured me and sentenced me to freedom in Utyrka."

"How did you escape?"

"With this." And, finally, Zhukov drew from his coat that the shadows had only dared whisper of: a long, twin-bladed knife. It shone in the dark, but the bronze prongs looked black, as though they absorbed the light; what little filtered in through the light shafts and dirty windows under the ceiling.

"You have powers," Emily prompted. "Did you—did the Outsider..?" She pretended not to know how to finish the sentence.

"I carved His Mark into my own skin with this, without quite knowing what I was doing," Zhukov whispered, still staring at the knife as though caught in a spell all its own. "It called to me from afar, then whispered in my ear when I finally held it in my hands. It sang, of the boy whose life was lost to sacrifice. I draw my power from bone charms, but I am not beholden to the Outsider."

"Yet you seek His favour," Emily tried to understand. What did Zhukov mean to do, what did it have to do with the Void, and what did he want with Daud?

"When He sees what I could do without Him, He will share more of His power with me," Zhukov turned back to her, familiar dizziness enveloping her but she did her best to fight it. "This blade is connected to Him. He will reward me for its return."

"But..?" Emily waited for the catch. Why didn't he simply walk up to a shrine, then? She had seen the violet glow emanating from windows in abandoned buildings; she knew there were still enough of them around the city, still those who would build them and leave runes upon them as offerings, searching for attention, waiting to be noticed.

"But for that I need to go into the Void. For that, I need to find Daud."

"Then why do you need my mother?"

"Your mother, child, is the one at the centre of all this."

"Why? What do you mean to _do_?"

"With this mirror, I can return time to what it was, to how it should have been. I can restore your mother's reign, I can find Daud and extract his secrets, I can restore _myself_. With this mirror, I will become the Hero of Tyvia once more, I will overthrow the High Judges and undo their crimes against me. Tell me the moment, tell me which one to pick! Time is a but a stream of potential futures, all bound to turn on a coin. Tell me exactly what you saw!"

Emily's head swam. He proposed to—to change the past? To return in time, to the day her mother died or perhaps before, to save her. Emily remembered, remembered the nightmares and the days when all she'd ever wanted was her mother returned to her. How often had she dreamed of ways to go back? And how many times had she told herself that the past was past, and to strive to change it brought only misery. She had found comfort in Corvo and Daud as they had in each other; in the Whalers, in Alexi and Wyman. In her mother's loving memory. What of all that if she complied?

And now, she could have her back — but if the battle's won, who counted the cost? Who accounted for their sins and for the dead; who counted the lives lost among the rubble of a dead city? For that was what Dunwall would become if Zhukov returned to right the wrongs of _his_ past. Potential futures, he had called them — was there more than one outcome? Was there a way to save him, her mother, and Dunwall, too?

Moreover — could she risk choosing the wrong moment?

She'd barely finished the thought before a familiar voice whispered in her ear.

_We're here._

* * *

In the end, there'd been a fight. A fight they'd almost lost, even though between the three of them, they should have had Zhukov dead to rights. But it wasn't until Emily had sliced open her own hand, using the pain as an anchor to withstand the influence of Zhukov's bonecharms just long enough to cut them off him. With strength even Daud hadn't known she possessed, she'd destroyed the disorientation charm that had previously made it impossible to get close to Zhukov. But before they could get to him, vulnerable and his strength waning, Zhukov had thrown himself towards the large ornate mirror suspended from the ceiling.

"Destroy it!" Emily had cried, and Corvo and Daud had acted as one, shooting bolts at the hinges. The mirror had shattered just as Zhukov entered it, the shards flooding the ground. They looked like pieces of the Void.

They'd believed themselves safe, then, only Emily still on her guard. But she'd had no time to explain before Zhukov had raised himself from the shattered remains of the mirror's surface, using the last of his magic to draw the pieces back together. He'd garbled something about the right moment, about Emily's first memory — about Jessamine. Then, Zhukov had drawn a blade: twin bronze edges, shining black and blue. Daud's skin had begun to crawl. It _sung_ , like runes and charms, like shrines calling to him in the night. Only this song was different; it felt like Void and yet like something… older. Something greater, something burning. He never wanted to feel it again.

But Zhukov hadn't thought to use the blade to fight; he knew he would have lost. Instead, he turned it on himself, set it to the flesh on the back of his hand that carried the crude carving of the Outsider's Mark and opened the wound, blood sluggishly oozing from his flesh. The acrid smell of burning rose from his skin, enough to turn even Daud's stomach.

"I will be the Hero of Tyvia once again," Zhukov hissed, and then turned to run back towards the mirror.

Daud, Emily, and Corvo all lunged at the same time.

Zhukov fell, as all men did, even those rotten and burnt by the Void; and the Mirror came down around them.

His body was not recovered, and neither was the knife.

* * *

> _Corvo —_
> 
> _I know I told you I wanted nothing more to do with spying for you. I still don't. But things have happened that I know are too damned daft to ignore._
> 
> _Anton Sokolov has disappeared. He had an apartment, here in Karnaca, and he went missing yesterday. I've not had contact with him (I'm not a fool, I know he'd recognise me, even now), but that man never goes anywhere without whispers following him; so it was easy to keep tabs. I don't even know why I did it._
> 
> _Now he's gone, and rumour has it that he's been taken by the Crown Killer — taken, not torn limb from limb and mangled. I don't have proof, but I know Kirin Jindosh, the Duke's Grand Inventor, has been working on something 'monumental' for him; and I'd bet my ship it has to do with those clankers Jindosh has been peddling. They've got to cost a hundred times to make what even he can sell them for, and if he's really building them for Luca, then we're all in deep shit. With Sokolov's help, voluntary or coerced, he might just figure out how to build them for a fraction of the cost._
> 
> _I've kept my hand clean of all this business — even turned a blind eye to the Crown Killer for as long as I could. But the Grand Guard is escalating things; and Luca has given them free reign over Karnaca, Cullero, and Saggunto. People are killed in the streets for minor (or imaginary) infractions every week, and Dunwall is doing **nothing**. Don't bother giving me some oxshit line about diplomacy, either. This is your home, and Daud's. I'm inclined to believe Emily is doing what she can, but it's not enough. It will not be enough._
> 
> _So I'm warning you. Be on your guard._
> 
> _— Meagan Foster_

* * *

>   ** _Karnaca Gazette_**
> 
> _17_ _ th _ _, Month of Timber, 1851_
> 
> **_Will Karnaca's Mechanical Marvels Conquer the World?_ **
> 
> **_Jindosh Clockworks Is Accepting Pre-Orders_ **
> 
> _At an auction held by Kirin Jindosh, the Grand Inventor offered for sale two of his latest contraptions — marvellous clockwork soldiers the likes of which have never been seen! The mechanical wonders sold after fierce bidding for an astonishingly high price! Never before has the wealthy class been able to protect themselves and their holdings with such visor and style! Prior to the auction, only the likes of Duke Luca Abele could enjoy such protection. Having seen a demonstration arranged by the genius natural philosopher himself, I was witness to what his clockwork soldiers can do! Woe to any trespasser or villain who crosses their path! I dare say Kirin Jindosh has discovered a way to end crime altogether!_

* * *

**Late in the Month of Songs, 1851**

"Your Majesty," Alexi and Martha entered Emily's study. "We have news from Serkonos."

"What news?" Emily exchanged brief glances with Corvo and Daud, who had joined her in her office to go over the plans for the rebuilding of the New Mercantile District. Alexi looked grave enough for Emily to truly worry — more so in the light of recent conflicts with the Duke.

"Duke Luca Abele has announced his intention to come to Dunwall, to attend the memorial. He requests leave for a large entourage."

"Whether his request is granted or not, he'll bring whatever he wants anyway," Daud scoffed.

Alexi inclined her head in agreement. "Reports from Karnaca are anything but favourable, Emily."

Emily sighed. Across from her, Wyman was frowning, and Corvo… Corvo looked as tired as she felt. What was it he'd said: Dunwall never changed. As soon as you got comfortable, things had a way of turning sour. He'd meant it as a warning, but now… Emily realised he'd just been waiting. For something like this. He and Daud, and the Whalers, had stopped dozens of assassins over the past decade. But this…

"It's a coup," she said quietly. Raising her eyes to Alexi and Martha, she saw worry on their faces, but determination, too. "He's going to try and take my throne, take it for himself and drive me out of Dunwall Tower." Emily set her jaw and looked at her fathers. "I'd like to see him try."

"Emily," Corvo now argued, visibly pulling himself together by his bootstraps. "It's not yet too late. Daud and I can go to Serkonos, we can sabotage Luca—"

"No," Emily interrupted him. "I need you both here."

Corvo shook his head. ”If you won't let us go, at least leave Dunwall yourself, go to Heronshaw. You can't be thinking of staying, waiting for him to openly rebel."

Emily sighed. With an apologetic glance at Alexi and Martha, she said, "Leave us, please."

Alexi's answering look promised her that this would be spoken of, later; but for now she and Cottings turned to leave the room. Once they were gone, Emily turned back to Corvo and Daud. "I will not have you two go on a fool's errand, and I will not run."

"It's almost a month yet, we still have time."

"If I leave now, Luca will know he'll have the run of my city."

"When Burrows sent me to kill Jessamine, we waited until the last possible moment," Daud spoke up now. "I'm not making that same mistake again. I promised her I’d protect you, not feed you to the wolves.”

"You would have her run," Emily reminded him. "It cost Mother her life."

"Emily—" Daud tried to reason with her.

"I will not be driven off my throne," she cut him off, her voice rising.

"Then you will drop off it, dead!" Daud barked; and if she hadn't known him as well as she did, she'd have mistaken his snarl for rage, when all it served was to mask his concern.

"Stop." Corvo's voice boomed through the small room, calling them to order. He looked at her with deeply wounded eyes. "You will not run?"

"No." It was unthinkable.

Slowly, he nodded. "Then we'll prepare."

"Corvo—" Daud started, but one look from Corvo stopped him short.

"For a fight, for a siege. To stay in the city, or to leave it. Contingencies, for us, and… for Emily, if she needs to get out on her own. We’ll prepare.”

* * *

**15th Day, Month of Earth, 1852**

That night, Corvo and Daud were in their quarters, burdened with the knowledge of what was to come, and the indignity of knowing. Daud shook his head. Of course Emily would not run. Not from something so pedestrian as a _coup_.

They had a plan. They had people, enough to hold their ground against an army if they had to. Everyone would have their place in this. Still. Daud had something to say, and if he didn't say it now, he'd not find the courage until it was too late. He walked up to Corvo and put his hands on his arms, catching his gaze.

“Corvo… if worst comes to worst, I need you and Emily to get out. I need the two of you to be safe, and to the Void—”

“Daud—”

“—and to the Void with me,” Daud finished. “If something happens, don’t hesitate. Not for a second,” he insisted when Corvo shook his head, his expression drawn and pained.

"She loves you just as much, and you would make a fine Protector," Corvo said then, and Daud felt his blood go cold in his veins at the implication. He tightened his hold on Corvo's arms.

"You're her father. Never even—"

"So are you." Corvo's eyes were hard. This was one of those things, wasn't it? Where they each attempted to extract promises they knew they could never give, nor intend to keep. Daud nodded. Corvo sighed. And then, he backed Daud up against the wall, and kissed him.

"Corvo… please…" Daud murmured between kisses, holding onto Corvo tightly.

"On the bed," Corvo growled then. At his tone, Daud drew back a little, seeking confirmation and finding it in Corvo's face. "On the bed, and keep your hands to yourself." What should have sounded menacing only served to make Daud's knees grow weak.

He nodded and walked towards the bed when Corvo released him. Absently, he started unbuttoning his coat.

"Ah." Corvo appeared behind him, pressing against his back. "Let me."

So Daud did, and Corvo soon had them both undressed. Daud lay back on the bed, still keyed up and struggling to find a sense of calm. He closed his eyes and then let out a deep breath when Corvo's hand found his calf, his touch grounding and firm.

"Shh," he gentled him. Daud felt the mattress dip with Corvo's weight. "I've got you." A soft kiss was pressed against Daud's stomach. "I'm right here." And it wasn't fair: Corvo was just as exhausted as him, just as worried, just as—

"Daud," Corvo's voice was so close now, whispering in his ear. "You can spoil me later, but know that this is as much for me as it is for you."

Damn that man and his ability to read his thoughts. In response, Daud blindly turned his head to kiss him. Corvo broke the kiss to speak again, softly murmuring into Daud's ear.

"You're a good man," he said, carding his fingers through Daud's hair. "A good father."

Corvo's hands set to exploring, roaming naked skin. Slowly, taking his time, and Daud felt himself relax, dropping into that state where he could hear Corvo say such things and not want to protest. Where he could hear, and listen, and _believe_.

"A good husband," Corvo rumbled, his fingers trailing down Daud's stomach and soon finding what he sought. Daud hissed when Corvo took him in hand. "You deserve to be loved." He tugged a few times, then he let go and Daud heard him shift on the bed, heard the beside table drawer open and close. When Corvo's hand returned, his fingers were slick with oil. Daud screwed his eyes shut tighter, but now it was from pleasure rather than vexation.

"Daud?"

"Hnn."

"Listen to me, and listen well. I love you." Corvo's own arousal was nudging Daud's thigh now and Daud ached to touch him, but restrained himself. "I love you." Another tug, a swipe across the head had Daud whimpering in Corvo's grasp. "Do you believe me?"

"Yes," Daud breathed.

"Say it again. Properly."

"Yes," Daud bit out between clenched teeth, feeling the simple sound turn into a moan. He was so close, but he knew he would not find release until Corvo was satisfied. "Yes, I believe you."

" _Say it_ ," Corvo insisted, his hand moving faster now.

"You love me." Another twist. "Fuck!" Daud's eyes flew open, seeking Corvo's gaze; and found him smiling down at him. Even now, looking like a besotted fool. "Fuck, you love me."

"I do." Corvo captured Daud's mouth in a kiss, and thus given permission, Daud tipped over the edge. He groaned against Corvo's lips.

A few minutes later, when Daud's breathing finally evened out and he could open his eyes again without blushing with his entire body, Corvo was still leaning over him. Still smiling.

"I knew it'd be my downfall, the day you figured _that_ out," Daud muttered — _that_ being how fast he got off when Corvo started saying _things_ , and when Daud… when he could let himself believe them.

"Worth it, no?" Corvo grinned, and Daud narrowed his eyes.

"Smartass," he growled, and then pounced. Corvo laughed as Daud rolled them over until he was on top. "I'll show you worth it," Daud promised, and kissed him, deeply.

After a while, he let up on him, looking down at Corvo. They'd successfully distracted themselves, but it didn't take long for Daud to remember _why_ the distraction had been necessary.

"I love you, too," he whispered.

"I know."

Whatever came, Daud knew, they would weather it together. There was, after all, no rest for the wicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) I HAD TO GIVE DAUD A PRAISE KINK; OK.  
> b) So they think they know what's gonna happen..... they really doo.......  
> c) Zhukov's Big Plan is pretty much the same as in Corroded Man, only with added bonus Daudsider Obsession™.  
> d) A letter from Meagan!!! It's been so long :')


End file.
